


Soldier of Love

by Mademoiselle_Kitty



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 148,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11168619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mademoiselle_Kitty/pseuds/Mademoiselle_Kitty
Summary: It's 1960. Paul McCartney and John Lennon arrive at the army training facility where they're enlisted in a 2-year program. For John, this is a dream come true. For Paul, not so much.When the two Liverpudlians meet, it's hate at first sight. Will they overcome their differences, or is it the start of World War III?





	1. A Day In The Life (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Back by popular demand! I will most likely post one, maybe two chapters each week, depending on how well they are received and whether or not my muse will help me iron out some kinks that were left in when the 33 chapters I had previously published were shared with the world. At this point - exactly 1 week before Paul's 75th birthday - I still have chapter 34 to complete and the epilogue to write. With your support, I'm sure I can do it. All comments and kudos are appreciated.
> 
> DISCLAIMER - This is fiction. Very much so, obviously. No libel intended, and all that jazz. You know the drill. It didn't happen, end of.
> 
> The idea for this story was a gift from (now retired) Wattpad user FatherMacKenzie. She contacted me after reading 'In My Life' and told me about this AU idea she had, asking me if I'd please turn it into a story for her. Since I know fuck all about anything military, I had my doubts. Still, I thought it was a good challenge, so I went to work. The details in this story will probably make those of you who do know a thing or two about the army go "IT DOESN'T HAPPEN LIKE THAT!!1!one!1". I understand, and I'm open to tips and suggestions. Please bear in mind that this is an AU, and in part an OOC at that. So, maybe the way things work in the military can be different in an Alternate Universe as well?
> 
> P.S. English is not my native language.

 

Lay down your arms, Soldier of love,  
And surrender to me.  
Lay down your arms, Soldier of love,  
And love me peacefully.  
Use your arms for loving me,  
Baby, that's the way it's gotta be.  
  
There ain't no reason for you to declare  
War on the one that loves you so  
So forget the other boys because my love is real  
Come off your battlefield  
  
Lay down your arms, Soldier of love,  
And love me peacefully.  
Lay down your arms, Soldier of love,  
And love me tenderly.  
Use your arms to hold me tight,  
Baby, I don't wanna fight no more.  
  
The weapons you're using are hurtin' me bad  
But someday you're gonna see  
That my love for you baby, is the truest you've ever had  
A Soldier of Love, that's hard to be  
  
Lay down your arms, Soldier of love,  
And love me peacefully.  
Lay down your arms, Soldier of love,  
And surrender to me.  
Use your arms to squeeze and please,  
cos I'm the one that loves you so

Baby, lay down your arms...

 

-*-

**4 July 1960**

 

**Paul**

 

The sound of his duffle bag hitting the floor rang loudly in Paul's ears and filled his heart with a paralysing feeling of dread. This was it; there was no going back. For the next two years, his life would cease to be his own. He would no longer be Paul, the motherless lad from Liverpool who liked girls and guitars – not necessarily in that order – but Recruit McCartney, just another face in a nameless crowd. Nobody would care who he was or what he liked. All anyone would be interested in would be showing him how to fight for Queen and country, and this big, depressing dormitory would be his home.

With a heavy sigh, he slumped down on the narrow bed assigned to him, dimly aware of the lack of comfort the thin mattress provided. Sleeping had always been one of Paul's favourite hobbies, but it didn't look like it'd be quite as pleasant a pastime here as it was back home, where his bed was comfy, and his room smelt of his father's lavender bushes growing just below his window. Quite the departure from the lingering odour of smelly feet he'd noticed the moment he'd walked in. Around him, his fellow Recruits, all clad in the same mossy green uniform he was sporting, were bustling about. Some were putting their things into their wardrobes and footlockers – checking twice to make sure everything was according to regulation – whilst others were comparing their identical, freshly cut hairdos. In essence, it was largely an exercise of seeing whose ears protruded the most and whose scalp had the right shape to pull off the bowling ball look. That was another reason Paul hadn't wanted to sign up: he loved his Elvis-style pompadour and DA, which he'd spent hours trying to perfect, and which now lay discarded on that vomit-coloured linoleum floor of the barracks' barbershop. He absentmindedly ran a hand over his head. The only other instance his hair had been this short must have been that time he - thanks to a mass outbreak at school - contracted head lice when he was a little kid, and his mum had mercilessly shaved him bald. Not even his da', strict as he was, had ever made him cut his hair quite so short, and that was saying a lot.

Whilst he still wallowed in the loss of his hair and freedom, Paul raised a quizzical eyebrow at the lad that raucously entered the dormitory with an overwhelming air of confidence in his stride, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. To Paul's annoyance, the arrogant twat flung his bag on the bed next to the one he was sat on and glanced around with a Cheshire-Cat-grin plastered on his face. He seemed a little bit older than Paul, who had turned eighteen just a fortnight before, and going by his demeanour, he was positively delighted to be there.

It didn't make sense to Paul, who had fought his father tooth and nail, had pleaded with him until he was blue in the face, and had eventually been left with no other choice but to give in and join the army. There really wasn't anything for it, since the alternative would have been homelessness. Not even his aunts had been willing to see his point of view, or that was the impression Paul had got, anyway. As far as the McCartney family was concerned, joining the army was a great honour, and Paul ought to be thankful for being allowed to participate in the long, two-year program, which would provide him with proper military training and a good chance at future employment. They simply didn't, or wouldn't understand that he abhorred war, and much preferred love. If it had been up to Paul to decide, he'd earn his way writing silly songs about love. If that was too much of a Bohemian lifestyle, as his father would sometimes say, then he always could've worked the factories and made music on the side. To him, anything was better than being anonymous canon fodder. But, since the employment office hadn't been able to help him get a job, all of Paul's dreams had gone up in smoke and here he was, doing his father's bidding. As per usual.

 

By the looks of it, his new neighbour – an auburn-haired bloke wearing NHS spectacles on his pronounced, Roman nose – was his polar opposite. The lad wasn't dancing a jig just yet, but he seemed a bit too happy to be there. Paul had an inkling he wouldn't be exchanging Christmas cards any time soon with that fellow. Anyone that eager to be in the army surely couldn't possibly be the type of person he'd want to be associated with. What could he possibly have in common with someone who liked guns and such? To Paul's chagrin, though, he soon discovered there was at least one thing he shared with that git. It annoyed him to no end when the lad started to hum a song. Perhaps it was because he knew that tune and up until a minute ago, it used to be one of his favourites. Carl Perkins was one of his biggest heroes, and knowing someone like that liked his music too, pretty much ruined the song for Paul, even though deep down a part of him realised he was being childish about it. With another sigh, Paul flopped on his back and aimlessly kicked at his bag, which still lay fully packed next to his bed.

The next 100 weeks were going to be very long...

 

-*-

  
**John**

 

He stopped for a moment to take it all in. He made it; finally! Mimi might have resisted every step but in the end, John had been victorious as he usually was. Now that he'd arrived in Aldershot, everything appeared even grander than he'd imagined. John glanced up at the massive flag which hung from the impressively high mast – rather limply on this stifling, windless day, but he could vividly imagine how grandiose it would look when the wind would stretch it out, displaying the Union Flag in all its glory. Around him, men clad in brownish green uniforms were walking around. Some of them in groups, marching as one in tight, evenly spaced lines. Some were pottering about, carrying duffel bags identical to his own. Those were obviously his fellow Recruits, and John couldn't wait to join them.

If it was up to him, John would have enlisted a year ago when he was eighteen, but of course his aunt wouldn't let him. She seemed to hold the conviction that guns and wars were barbaric, and joining the military ranks was something a different sort of people did. It certainly wasn't anything people of their class aspired to, and someone from her household choosing that path was just not open to negotiation. She insisted he stay in school – not that he did much more than cause trouble there – and she had simply forbade him to join. It wasn't until after he got expelled and his constant presence around the house drove her mad that she had eventually allowed her nephew to do what he'd been nagging about for years.

She must have realised it was the best chance he had at ending up somewhere that wasn't the gutter or jail, John smirked to himself. Without a single O-level to his name, the best he could've hoped for was a job at the docks anyway. Lifting things, or maybe operating a crane if he got terribly lucky - which he sincerely doubted he would. More likely, he'd end up unloading crates of half-rotten fish or fruit, and that certainly didn't fit into the upper-middle-class life Mimi had pegged for John. Chances were the thought of him turning into an alky, or just walking through sleepy, suburban Woolton in his dirty worker's clothes was what made her change her mind. Or perhaps his argument that if he applied himself, he just might become a high ranking officer tickled her fancy. He didn't know what made her succumb to his pleas, but she had, and here he was.

The moment his hair had to go was a bit sour, as his quiff had earned him a lot of respect – or possibly just fear – on the streets of Liverpool. All he ever had to do to get a girl was to drag a comb through his ducktails and tilt his head at them in a cocky 'hey, what's up' kind of way. Seeing one of his best assets end up atop a furry pile of blond, brown, red, and black strands of different shades, lengths, and textures was a bit depressing. But in the end, he figured, it was just hair, and it'd grow back, and he'd still have his wit to charm the birds, as well as his sharp tongue and rapid fists to silence any gobshite who'd dare try and annoy him. So, a few minutes later he found himself whistling a cheerful tune as he glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. On it was his dormitory assignment, as well as a list of rules and instructions. He'd already memorised the latter, and he was itching to put them into practice and maybe outshine the others in his group.

John had a spring in his step when he entered the dormitory, and it didn't take him long to figure out which bed was his, as nearly everyone else was already there. Most of his fellow Recruits were busy, some appeared to already be done packing away their things, and a few were sitting idly about. They seemed like a sorry lot, for the most part. John scowled inwardly at them; how could they not be chomping at the bit? The fellow sitting on the bed next to his looked especially glum. John half expected the blighter to break out in tears at any moment, what with him sitting there all hunched and seemingly lost in thought. A wide grin crept upon John's face as he decided that getting under that bloke's skin would be his first goal. He was basically asking for it wasn't he, being so obviously ungrateful for the chance he had been given. He looked a right git anyroad, with his heart shaped face, black hair, and big doe eyes. It he was a bird, he would've been pretty, John reckoned. It wouldn't surprise him if the lad would run away screaming at the first sight of a gun. He looked queer enough for it, in any case. Yeah, finding out how much that one could take before he'd break down and cry would be a good pastime.

John noisily tossed his bag on the bed and started packing away his things, humming 'Sure To Fall', one of his favourite songs, to himself as he went about his task. Every now and again, he threw a covert sideways glance to the miserable sod next to him. When the lad flopped down with an air of defeat, John failed to suppress a triumphant cackle. Recruit Lennon 1 – Pretty Boy 0.

This was going to be the best time of his life...


	2. Bad Boy

**Paul**

 

“Attention!”

As sudden as if a switch was flicked, the atmosphere in the room changed dramatically. The casual murmur of young men introducing themselves to each other, wondering what the training would be like, and discussing what each of them wanted to do after the course ended, died away in an instant and was replaced with an excited kind of anxiety as everyone realised the moment when it all would start had arrived.

Each and every Recruit rushed to the foot of their beds, where they remained stock still, rigidly staring straight ahead as the Warrant Officer who just called them to attention slowly made his way down one row of lads and up the other, inspecting their uniforms, beds, and wardrobes at random as he progressed. Every now and again, he'd rather sternly correct someone's posture, or point out an oversight. The things he mentioned felt a bit trivial to Paul, such as a bit of dust on someone's boots, or putting ones underclothes in the wrong spot, which seemed outright silly. What did it matter whether someone kept their trousers and pants on the same shelf or a different one? What was the point of dictating how to fold ones socks or something like that? Apparently, it mattered to the army and clearly, the Badge wasn't going to make any allowances for the fact that nobody really knew what they were doing. Frankly, Paul felt thoroughly intimidated by that tall, serious-looking man, who didn't seem like the kind of person he'd want to have as his enemy.

By the time the Badge appeared in his periphery, Paul felt beads of sweat pearling on his face, and it wasn't because of the humid summer heat. The moment that commanding voice boomed through the dormitory, he knew he was in trouble. Behind him, hastily kicked under the bed but very poorly hidden, lay his duffle bag. A blind man would instantly spot it, so he had no hopes of getting away with it. He had put off unpacking it for as long as he could, and he had barely scratched the surface. His instructions had been clear and he had defiantly elected to ignore them. It had seemed a brilliantly rebellious thing to do at first, but Paul was rather afraid now. What would the punishment be? His best hope was to be kicked out, yet somehow he doubted he'd be that lucky. He was just wondering whether the army used corporeal punishment when the Warrant Officer halted in front of him, looking very much not amused by what he saw.

“Recruit McCartney.”

Momentarily forgetting to keep staring ahead, Paul raised his eyes to meet the Badge's icy blue stare. He was a few inches taller than Paul and didn't seem entirely unkind, but that glower could definitely make the toughest man tremble in his boots, Paul reckoned as he quickly looked straight ahead again. He felt his own legs wobbling a bit anyway, and wondered if anyone could see how nervous he was. They probably could, too, since he himself felt his ears burning bright red and without any hair to hide it, they probably looked like two buoys now. “Y- Yes sir...” He stammered, feeling his heart rate increase dramatically.

“I don't think I heard you correctly, Recruit. What did you say?” If anyone wasn't secretly watching before, they sure were after the Sergeant Major's thunderous voice alerted the Recruits of impending doom.

“Yes, Sergeant Major!” Paul tried to sound as confident as he could, and he was mortified to hear his voice crack into a higher pitch as if he was some adolescent kid or something. The scarcely concealed smirk of his neighbour didn't help much, either. Once again, Paul caught himself thinking what an arrogant arse that bloke was, though there wasn't much time to dwell on the thought.

“Is that mess underneath your bed your interpretation of army regulation, Recruit?”

Paul tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry as a desert. “No, sir.... Sergeant Major...” He cursed himself for slacking off, and hoped he'd be let off easy. Going by the way the Warrant Officer bristled, he realised that hope was in vain.

“Then what is it supposed to be, Recruit," the man lashed out, each syllable blowing massive holes in whatever sense of pride Paul had left. He hadn't thought it very funny when one other lad had been harshly criticised for wearing a winter uniform in summer, but at least that had been a fair point. Even Paul had agreed it was stupid to wear long sleeves when the instructions on what to wear had been the easiest and most logical thing about the whole army experience thus far. Still, being on the receiving end of it suddenly made him feel a lot of sympathy for the bloke who'd been called an idiot for everyone to hear. "Do you think the rules don't apply to you?”

“No, sir! I mean, no I don't think that, Sergeant Major!”

Just within his periphery, he could see the bespectacled bloke biting his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing. 'Git,' Paul thought, before his attention was claimed once more by the officer yelling at him. “Then what did you think, Recruit?”

“I don't know, Sergeant Major!”

Somewhere in the far end of the room, someone sniggered softly. The Badge didn't appear to notice. He simply jeered, “That much I already guessed, Recruit!”

This time, the auburn bloke failed to hide his amusement. A short, but very audible snort echoed through the dormitory. The officer turned on his heel and addressed the lad, apparently unaware of the deep breath of relief that escaped Paul, who was grateful to get a few moments to compose himself.

“Recruit Lennon! Do you find your comrade's situation amusing?”

“No, Sergeant Major!” The fellow sure sounded a lot more sure of himself than Paul did. It wasn't the difference in attitude that made Paul's heart miss a beat, though. The moment this Lennon bloke opened his mouth, Paul realised another thing they had in common: he was clearly from Liverpool too. Though he knew for a fact he wasn't the only one, he didn't much like the thought of someone that annoying being from his beloved home.

“Then why are you laughing, Recruit?”

“I don't know, Sergeant Major!” Now it was Paul's turn to bite back a giggle. At least he wasn't the only one looking like a fool now.

“Well, how about that? Why don't you two Scouse gits report to the kitchen, where I'm sure they'll have something useful for you to do. And then, when you get back,” he barked as he turned Lennon's foot locker upside down over his bunk so everything came tumbling out, “you can both clear away your mess. Any questions?”

Feeling the Badge's piercing eyes on him, Paul straightened his back and barked, “no, Sergeant Major,” as firmly as he could muster, at exactly the same instant the other bloke did the same. For a moment, he hesitated, not sure what to do next.

“Well," the Badge said impatiently, "what are you waiting for? On the double!”

Without another thought, Paul fumbled a half-hearted salute and jogged towards the door, his neighbour hot on his heels. They barely cleared the building when a sharp smack against the back of his head made him stop and turn.

“Bloody hell,” Paul yelled, rubbing the rather painful spot, "what'd you do that for?”

“Yer a fucking gobshite, that's why,” Lennon shouted. “It's your fault I got into trouble; I got my shit packed away all proper like and now I can start all over again. Fucking div.”

Paul couldn't believe his ears. “Hang on a mo'! I didn't get you into trouble. If you'd kept yer gob shut in there, you'd be fine. Don't go blaming me for your inability to control yerself! And who are you calling a div anyroad? Arl arse...”

The lad stared daggers at Paul, and for a moment Paul was sure he was going to be punched in the face. He seemed that kind of a person anyway, and that murderous glare only convinced Paul more that he was going to get a beating. Even though he was taller than his opponent, albeit marginally, the other lad was heavier, and the look on his face spelt danger. After staring Paul down for a moment or two, though, he shrugged and turned around, walking off as if nothing had happened at all.

Confused, Paul looked around to see if he could figure out what made the lad back down, but nothing stood out to him. He'd half expected someone to be watching them, but they were alone out there. Inside, he could hear the Badge's voice rising again. He'd found another victim, apparently. Paul wondered what terrible crime had been committed this time. Whoever it was probably hadn't tied his bootlaces the right way 'round or something like that, he thought wryly. Eventually, it dawned on him that he was supposed to report to the kitchen. But where that was...? He hadn't the foggiest, so he reluctantly followed the Lennon lad, since he appeared to know where he was going. Paul lagged behind most of the way, pretending to be finding his way all by himself until the scent of food told him which way to go, at which point he increased his speed and quickly overtook his nemesis. Deep down, Paul knew he was being immature but the thought of needing that git to get somewhere was almost too much to handle, so he made it a point to at least be the first to arrive.

 

-*-

 

**John**

 

“Congratulations, gentlemen," the barracks' chef deadpanned when John and McCartney reported to him. "You're the first of your year to be sent here.”

For some reason, John felt more proud about that achievement than he knew to be right. He was going to be an officer, after all, so he really ought to be on his best behaviour, right? Still, being the first - and therefore the best - at anything was something worth relishing. Sure, he hadn't technically been the first there. That dimwit had trailed behind him until they were practically in front of the kitchen, at which time he'd pretended to know his way all along. Probably thought John hadn't noticed, either. Wanker. He quickly pulled his signature 'cripple' face at McCartney when the Lieutenant wasn't looking. Immediately, Pretty Boy threw him a contemptuous glare, inspiring John to pull the same face again, and this time the cook noticed.

“I'll pretend I didn't see that, Recruit,” he stated pointedly.

John gauged the man. He was young; he couldn't be more than just a few years older than they were. His dark, curly hair was draped very neatly across the man's scalp, and his face looked kind, but also quite stern. The posh accent - even more affected than the Badge's - made it very hard to determine where the Lieutenant was from, though John couldn't escape the idea that he'd seen him before. He knew the place was teeming with Scousers which was odd considering there was a barracks in Liverpool and Aldershot was just about as far from Merseyside as one could get, but there it was. He couldn't decide whether he'd actually seen that face before, or if it was just his imagination playing tricks. Something told John this wasn't the time to ask about it, especially considering the vibe he got off the chef. It was hard to tell whether he was amused or angry, but somehow he felt he shouldn't try this man's patience too much. There was something about him; John couldn't quite figure out what it was, but it made him cautious. Best not try his luck there just yet.

“Right. First things first. I like to run a tight ship in here, so no larking about. Are we clear on that?” When both boys affirmed, he continued, “Good. Now, I find it easier to use your first names. It saves a lot of time when you do something which requires you getting yelled at, which you undoubtedly will at some point.” He gestured at John, “J.W. stands for...?”

“John Winston, Lieutenant,” John answered obediently. He didn't feel too happy about having to state his middle name, which was given to him in a fit of wartime patriotism and which had always embarrassed John tremendously. He'd been teased with it a lot. Well, until he started beating up anyone who so much as remotely referred to it. By saying it aloud, he was basically giving McCartney something to use against him but with any luck, he would have a name John could make fun of as well.

The chef nodded, clearly not even remotely interested in giving too much thought to their names or the many ways they could be used. “Very well. Your turn,” he continued, addressing McCartney.

“I'm James Paul, Lieutenant,” the other boy stated sounding altogether too matey too John's taste, “I go by Paul, but my friends usually just call me Macca.” That didn't sound like anything he could turn into a proper joke, John mused. He figured me might be able to use the nickname, or the pompous way in which the lad had answered the simple question, but that was it. He'd have to be more creative.

“Brilliant. You may call me Lieutenant Epstein. If your behaviour warrants it, I might in time allow you to call me Chef. What, you didn't think you were going to call me by my first name, were you?” The man shook his head at the somewhat flummoxed look on John and Paul's faces. “Alright, then. If you look over there, you'll find a large sack of potatoes. You'll be peeling them, and I want you to do it neatly, is that understood? I want as little waste as possible, and I want you to work swiftly. And no talking. You're here to work, not to socialise.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Epstein,” John and Paul chimed in unison. John wasn't too happy about the assignment. He'd never peeled a potato in his life, and until a minute ago, he never thought he would. Still, he reckoned McCartney probably never had either, and he was dead set on being better at it than the younger lad. So he picked up a knife and grabbed the largest spud he could find.

Five minutes later, he dropped the first one into the giant copper pot they'd been given. His hands were already cramping up, and there were countless potatoes left to go; enough to feed the entire barracks, probably. John could only hope they'd get help before his hands ended up falling off. He sighed and studied his opponent. Like him, he was sat on an upturned bucket. John had stretched out his legs as much as possible, leaving no room for McCartney to do the same, so that his knees were somewhere near his chest. To John, it looked uncomfortable, but this Paul fellow didn't seem bothered. His features had taken on a look of deep concentration, with a furrowed brow and his eyes fixed on what his hands were doing. John couldn't help but notice they'd changed colour. Earlier, they had been light brown with a hint of green, but now they were very dark, close to black. His gaze trailed down to the boy's hands, which worked swiftly. It was obvious he had done this before. He'd rested his elbows on his knees and appeared almost in his element. John couldn't help but notice two things: the first one was the fact that Pretty Boy was left handed. The second thing made him laugh out loud, despite the warning to keep quiet.

“Bloody hell! Yer a fucking chimpanzee,” he sneered. “Look at all that hair, it grows on yer hands an' all! Fucking disgusting if you ask me!”

The guy shrugged. “So? At least I'm not ginger.” It was said very casually, flippant almost, but the implication was clear. So, it was going to be like that, was it? Fine, John thought, that meant he didn't have to bite his tongue, either. He half considered going easy on the kid, but now McCartney had thrown down the gauntlet, all bets were off.

“What did you say.... Macca?” He put as much vitriol into the nickname as he possibly could muster, and it didn't miss its target.

“Don't call me that, you're not my friend... Winnie.” Before John could bite back, the dark-haired boy continued to speak. “And I said,” he jeered, “at least I'm not ginger. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind gingers. I reckon it looks nice... on girls. I'm just sayin' I'd rather be hairy than ginger, is all.”

The bloody nerve on that gobshite.... John couldn't believe it. “Shut yer gob, I'm not ginger! And even if I was, which I'm not, at least I don't look like a bint.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Ah, a sore spot. Just what he was looking for. “Exactly what it sounds like, luv. Tell me, how much time do you spend plucking those eyebrows, eh? And those lashes; are you wearing mascara or does looking like a bird come naturally to you?” By now, the spuds were completely forgotten though McCartney was still holding his, and their voices ricocheted off the walls.

“You'll take that back!”

Just like it had before at the dorm, the git's voice rose about an octave, which amused John to no end. Clearly, this particular topic was something he could use against his enemy. How stupid of him to show his cards like that but then again, John wasn't complaining. He'd always been an expert at sensing other people's weaknesses and using those against them. It wasn't his fault if the ammunition was being handed to him on a silver platter, was it? If this McCartney bloke wanted to survive his Recruitment period, he'd better grow a pair of bollocks anyway. In a way, John was doing him a favour, really. Sure, the blighter probably wouldn't see it that way. In fact, John would make sure to make it as painful as he possibly could. But then, he didn't start it. Alright, maybe he had, but calling a man ginger? That wasn't on! “Oh will I now? And what if I don't, eh? Will you cry? That'll make your eyeliner run, you know.”

“Carry on an' ye'll be chewin' a brick!”

John was just about ready to go in for the kill. First insults, and now disrespect as well? Nobody talked back at him like that, and the lad would regret even trying. “And who's going to make me? You? You wouldn't hit me, you might break a nail! Can't have that, what with your mummy not being here to kiss it better. I bet she does that, doesn't she? Ye look a right mummy's boy, you do. Are you, Paulie?”

With a loud splash, the half-peeled potato Paul was holding fell into the pot, causing a significant amount of water to slosh over the edge and onto their boots and trouser legs. Neither took much notice of it, but John certainly noted the look on the younger boy's face. It was fleeting, but it told him all he needed to know: he had struck gold. Having clearly found his opponent's biggest weakness and taking stock of it, John leaned back, relishing the memory of his words hitting target.

Lennon 2 – Pretty Boy 0. Or so he thought...


	3. Run For Your Life

**Paul**

 

All Paul could see was red. In fact, the callous remark had hit such a tender nerve, he never even noticed the water drenching the lower half of his trousers. All he could think was how his instincts about this Lennon bloke had been right all along: he was a right tosser, and even being Scouse couldn't compensate for that fact.

Paul didn't particularly mind people joking about him being furry. Sure, he sometimes wondered how much more body hair he'd sprout and whether it'd reach a point where girls would be turned off by it. But so far, they seemed to like it, and so it didn't bother him when people commented on it. If anything, he was kind of glad when people noticed, since it made him look a lot more masculine than the other part of him that attracted a lot of attention: his face.

The fact that people considered him cute was a bit more of a touchy subject. For as long as he could remember, Paul had a kind of love-hate-relationship with his appearance. It had its perks, obviously. Not even his da' had been able to stay cross for long when Paul widened his eyes to make them look even bigger. Since it was so easy to charm people into a more accommodating mood, Paul had been a bit of a stinker as a kid, getting away with loads of things just by exploiting his looks. But there was a downside to it too. The memories of his aunts - as well as random women he didn't even know - fawning over his looks were etched into Paul's mind. The endless comments of how he'd grow up to be a heartbreaker, the unsolicited pinching of his cheeks, the cooing over his eyes, it had annoyed him for as long as he could remember. After having been subjected to that kind of thing for years, being bullied relentlessly for looking 'like a bird' had almost been a relief.

Of course, that, too, had gotten tiresome very quickly, especially when that fat git Tony and his mates Alfie and Harold would be waiting for him after school and beat him up. Thankfully, he'd never seen them again once he got into the Inny, but once he settled in there, some of the older and more knowledgeable boys would taunt Paul by suggesting he looked like a queer. or worse: like a girl. It seemed like he simply couldn't catch a break either way. Adopting the Teddy look and scowling a lot helped a bit, but everybody knew it didn't take much to make him smile, and in the end he had sort of made peace with the fact that he was cursed with what was widely thought of as a pretty face. Girls seemed to like the cherubic look for some reason and once the worst of that chubbiness wore off, they'd been all over him like flies on honey, making it easy to get laid before any of his classmates had even kissed a girl, so maybe it wasn't such a bad thing after all. That didn't mean an arse like Lennon could comment on it without consequence...

But ultimately, the comments about his mum were what really drove Paul over the edge. He realised John didn't know - had no possible way of knowing - about what happened and how it still hurt like hell after four years, but that didn't matter. That bellend had no right to say those things. Insulting him was fine, Paul could handle that. He'd learnt to give as good as he got over the years anyway, so he could always retaliate with some choice remarks of his own if needed. But shitting on someone's mum? He'd considered that off-limits even before it became such a tender subject. If you had an issue with a bloke, you took it up with him, but you'd leave everyone else out of it, or that's how Paul saw it anyway. So as far as he was concerned, whatever happened to this John character was completely deserved. After all, he did warn him to stop, right?

Without hesitation, he lunged forward and swung his left fist in the direction of that jeering face. The sensation of his knuckles colliding with skin gave him an immense satisfaction. So that bloke thought he looked like a girl, right? And he thought Paul was a soft lad not to be taken seriously? He'd set the record straight on that one.

He didn't care that his hand felt bruised – maybe even broken – and that the lad was putting up quite a fight himself once he recovered from the shock. Paul knew he'd be severely punished for starting a physical fight, and in that moment, he couldn't care less. He didn't even put up a struggle when a pair of hands roughly pulled him away and he was more or less dragged towards the exit as was Lennon, whose protests apparently fell on deaf ears. He meekly allowed himself to be ushered into an office somewhere in the main building.

Now that he'd proven his point, he was barely even angry anymore. Paul only very rarely punched someone. It wasn't in his nature to inflict pain on others and truth be told, it was very unusual for him to even reach the point where he could so much as bring himself to hit someone. Once he did, once the pressure was released, he usually reverted back to his normal, peaceful self immediately. It wasn't much different now. There was still a simmering sense of loathing and dislike towards this John character, but he had no intention whatsoever to start another row.

As they were told to wait, Paul glanced sideways and admired his handiwork. Just because he wasn't much of a fighter, didn't mean he regretted it when he did use his fists. By the look of it, he'd managed to make a proper impression: bruises were already blooming on Lennon's face, which was a study in cold fury. If looks could kill, he would've dropped dead on the spot, but since all John could do was glower, Paul stared openly at the lad to his left. The sight of blood trickling from John's bruised nose made Paul smirk. 'Fuck the consequences.' he thought, 'at least this round goes to me.'

 

-*-

 

**John**

 

He had to admit it: Pretty Boy was proving to be a worthy adversary. John never in a million years expected that first punch in any case. Nor the second, or the third, for that matter. In fact, he hadn't even thought it to be a remote possibility that McCartney would resort to violence. It nearly made him respect the cretin. Only nearly, though. He was, after all, still a nonce, even if he did happen to have a surprisingly strong left hook, and an even worse uppercut, as the throbbing ache underneath his jaw was so kind to remind John. It wasn't what had done the most damage, though. Sure, it had rattled his teeth quite badly, but that was nothing compared to the rest. John gingerly touched his nose and winced; it wasn't broken, there was no doubt in his mind about that, but it was going to be black and blue for weeks. He definitely had not seen it coming; any of it, really. He knew he deserved it, though. If he was honest about it... Which he'd really rather not...

Then again, who did this Paul think he was anyroad, calling him ginger? Everyone knew he was auburn, and that was really just a type of brown, right? Not that being ginger was bad. His mum had been one, after all, and he'd always thought she was rather fit. But he wasn't, and that bloke shouldn't have insisted he was. Alright, so he didn't technically say that he, John, was ginger. But he implied it, and that was bad enough. No, worse. Outright saying it would've been more honest. Dead wrong, but at least it wasn't sneaky then. John Lennon ginger? Never! So that bit about him looking like a bird was perfectly justified, as far as he was concerned. And the stuff about his mum... Well, maybe that was taking it too far. Mums were generally considered low-hanging fruit. It wasn't exactly a sign of the sharpest wit to have a swipe at someone's mother. But there were no rules against it, especially in the army, where the average IQ was probably considerable lower than in the kinds of people John usually hung out with. For all he knew, this Paul whinger could be stupider than an arse's arse. And how was John to know the lad would get his knickers in a bunch over it anyway? It wasn't like she was dead, like John's mum was. So what did McCartney have to be upset about?

The worst part was, they'd both been reprimanded, even though he hadn't been the one doing the hitting. Sure, he fought back; who wouldn't? But John was the victim of a brutal assault, and that was the version of events he was going to stick to. He rolled onto his side and stared at Paul's back. Sleeping like a lamb, no doubt. Fucking wanker. It was all his fault, the stupid git. Kitchen duty for two full weeks and a mention of misconduct in his personnel file, on top of their daily training routine. It was going to be fucking exhausting, and McCartney was going to pay, no matter what. How dare he lie there all peaceful like, as if nothing had happened? He ought to be tossing and turning, consumed by guilt and all that. John would feel infinitely less grotty if he hadn't been the only one lying awake. 

John searched for his glasses and carefully put them on, trying to avoid touching his face as much as possible. Only the sound of the other Recruits' breathing broke the silence. Every now and then, someone would let out a snore, but other than that is was quiet. Well, no surprises there, as it was half two and he ought to be sleeping as well. Aided by the artificial light provided by a lamp post somewhere nearby, John scanned his surroundings until his eyes fell on something interesting. As strained his eyes to look closer, the corners of his mouth curled up in a mischievous smile. He'd been right before then, when he thought he saw something familiar but couldn't be entirely sure. It was the perfect solution to his problem; an opportunity too good to refuse. Careful not to make any noise, he slowly got out of bed to set his plan in motion. This was going to be first-class entertainment, and John would have the best seat in the house.

 

-*-

 

**Paul**

 

He stirred in his sleep, feeling restless. Paul hadn't thought he could ever feel worse than he had at the moment he got off the train at Aldershot station. How wrong he had been about that! His first day had been sheer hell, and now all of the events got repeated and twisted into a rather bizarre dream. For some reason, he was back in the barber's chair, getting his head shorn. Some of it must have made its way down his T- shirt, because he could feel it itching on his back. He watched as the thick, black strands of hair met the floor.

Suddenly, it seemed to come alive. His hair, that is. Not the floor, although not much surprised him anymore and that ghastly green colour did remind him of germs somehow. But no, it was the hair that seemed to be doing things it shouldn't. Paul blinked a few times, thinking he was imagining things, but it was definitely moving. He shuddered as he saw his beloved hair turn into the creatures he detested so much. At first, they were rather still, and he could almost tell himself it wasn't real. But with each passing second, they became more distinct, and more active until he could see them scurrying around below his feet, endlessly running back and forth. Eventually, the other tufts of hair which had once belonged to his fellow Recruits met the same fate. It was a scene straight from one of those screaming films his cousin had once tricked Paul into watching when he was twelve, and which had given him nightmares for weeks. Hadn't he already been itching, the sight of what was happening on the floor was enough to make him squirm. Paul tried to get away, but he suddenly noticed he was stuck in the chair, tied down by the gown that was supposed to keep him from itching the way he did. Who would do such a strange thing? He tried to scream, but no sound came out of his mouth. The only sound he heard was that of someone laughing. Didn't he know that cackle from somewhere? Paul tried to look around, hoping someone could help him. Where was the barber; that short bloke with the blue eyes and the Liverpudlian accent? He was there a second ago, why didn't he do something? Someone was definitely there, because Paul could hear them. Were they the reason he couldn't move? With a Herculean effort, Paul ripped himself free from the cloth that had kept him down, and promptly fell out of the chair, right in the middle of those nasty creatures until suddenly, they were gone and he found himself covered in darkness, constricted by a stark white sheet.

As Paul realised he'd just woken from a nightmare, he managed to calm down enough to push away the sheets, making it easier to breathe. Or, more accurately, pant, because he was more than a little short of breath and his heart was pounding in his ears. Bit by bit, the dream evaporated until only a vague feeling of dread remained. Slowly, Paul's eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding him. He could hear people breathing, reminding him of where he was, and he could feel an itch on his back, which made him remember fragments of his nightmare. It surprised him, as his hair had been cut many hours earlier, and if any strands had ended up inside his clothes, he hadn't noticed before. Besides, he had showered and changed into a clean T-shirt since. So if it wasn't hair, then what was that itch... and why did it appear to be moving?

The realisation made Paul's eyes fly wide open, and he jumped out of bed, barely able to keep himself from cursing out loud. He pulled his T-shirt off and dropped it like it was on fire, whist frantically brushing his hands over every inch of his body, just in case anything else was crawling around on his skin. In the faint light, he could quite clearly see it: a fat spider scurried across the mattress towards and then over the edge of the bed. And watching him from a few feet away was his nemesis, cackling softly so only Paul could hear.

“Afraid of spiders are we? Why, that doesn't surprise me at all,” Lennon giggled. “Most girls are, aren't they?”

Paul was at a loss for words. This guy was insane, there was no other explanation. He felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He didn't think Lennon would be able to see that what with the dormitory being so scarcely lit, but he didn't want to blush anyway, if only because it more or less confirmed John's suspicions. Sort of. Of course Paul wasn't afraid of spiders. Well, not really. Not much. He just thought they were vile. Growing up, his mum had always kept the house very clean, so there were never any spiders or bugs crawling about. They simply never got a chance to find a corner to settle into; they'd be swept right out of the window before anyone other than Mary ever got a chance to see them. And when his school mate George and he had found a pair of Daddy Longlegs in their room during their hitchhiking trip to Wales, they'd made short work of those. Because they thought those critters were just wrong, having far too many legs an' all. Not because they were scared. Not really. Not much, anyroad. Probably more than they'd ever admit, though...

But scared or not, that wasn't even the issue. Paul could appreciate a good prank. He'd pulled enough of them when he was a kid. But never something like this, and never with any ill intent. When it was in good fun, jokes were alright. However, this was done in malice and what's more, it had ruined his sleep. Paul never reacted kindly to people who attempted to keep him from having a good night's sleep. It was his favourite pastime, after all. Fuming, he rounded the bed and brought his face within an inch of John's. “Alright, Lennon. You want to play? Fine, let's play. I'm not afraid of you. A fair warning though: do something like that ever again, and your mum will be receiving your remains in a match box. Are we clear on that?”

Paul half expected them to end up pummelling each other silly again, but he was wrong. In fact, he could have sworn he saw a hint of something familiar in John's eyes for a second. Before he could make out what it was, the face had hardened again.

“Is that supposed to impress me, son? You'll have to come up with a better threat than that," Lennon hissed with such vitriol, Paul could feel tiny droplets of saliva landing on his face. It was disgusting, really, but he was too wound up to bother wiping it off, so he kept hovering right inside of John's personal space, seeing as how it clearly annoyed Lennon. "Now get the hell out of my face or you'll wake up with an audience.”

Paul snorted and kept his ground. “You wouldn't risk it. You love your precious army far too much for that! Unlike you, I don't care if they kick me out. You can't win this, Johnny boy. I've already won, you just don't know it yet.” He hadn't a clue what he meant by that. It sounded ridiculous even to his own ears, but he was too upset to care, so he just let it hang there for John to mull over. With any luck, that knobhead would think he meant something profoundly threatening by it.

He calmly turned around, grabbed his T-shirt off the bed and gave it a firm shake before putting it back on. A quick survey revealed two more spiders, both of which he squished whilst looking John straight in the eye. Paul didn't usually kill animals when he could avoid it. Then again, these were special circumstances and spiders didn't really count as animals, did they? They had four pairs of eyes, for fuck's sake. Hoping he'd gotten rid of the last of Lennon's surprises, Paul crawled into bed and pulled the sheets up over his head. As he tried to fall back asleep, he couldn't help but wonder how long this feud was going to last. He truly hoped it would resolve itself soon but whatever happened, he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one giving up the fight.


	4. I'm Looking Through You

**September 1960**

 

**Paul**

 

He was sick of it. Literally. The whole feud thing made Paul physically ill. Who had be been trying to kid, anyway? This kind of ongoing animosity wasn't his thing, never had been. Being more of the 'let's all get along'-kind of guy, Paul didn't particularly enjoy it when people so openly disliked him. Well, nobody did, he reckoned, but still. It wasn't that he needed to be universally liked, or that he never had any enemies before, for lack of a better word. But he'd never actively kept a feud going and in the end, he nearly always ended up trying to restore peace, or staying away from the person he didn't get along with. With John, Paul didn't seem to have much of a choice. He was always there, so he couldn't be swerved, and even when Paul tried to remain passive, Lennon would still continue the attacks.

Sometimes they were just nasty comments. Mostly about his mum or his looks, but Lennon didn't seem to shy away from any topic and had long since pinpointed several of Paul's weaknesses that way. Sometimes they were pranks at Paul's expense, preferably public for maximum humiliation. Childish things such as making it look as if Paul had wet the bed, or scattering all of his underpants all over the barracks so he had to go look for them. Paul had been extra careful to properly lock his wardrobe after that.

Some pranks were less benign, like putting something in Paul's food when his head was turned - he still didn't know exactly how that one had been pulled off but he suspected John had help - so that he'd been feeling sick to his stomach for an entire afternoon without ever being able to just throw up and be rid of it. Other times, John would be outright cruel and his actions would end up in actual injuries, like that toe Paul recently broke due to John 'accidentally stumbling' and dropping a massive, heavy log, which they were supposed to carry together during a team-building exercise, on his foot when the Badge wasn't looking.

Paul had tried to take a step back, or so he thought anyway. He never even told anyone how he really sustained that injury, and acted like it didn't bother him all that much. He hadn't wanted to give John the satisfaction of seeing him in agony, even though he was biting back groans and tears of pain each time he had to tape up his foot. What else was he going to do? Cry and beg for mercy? No. He was a man, so he wasn't going to just let Lennon walk all over him. So, he tried to give as good as he got, but his attempts hadn't been as efficacious as of late, mostly because the entire ordeal took its toll physically. It was, to put it simply, just getting too much.

Just recently, the Badge had sent him to the infirmary because apparently, he looked green. Well, he had been feeling terribly ropey, so the man hadn't been far off the mark there. It was Paul's head: it was killing him. He couldn't tolerate light – or sound, or smells for that matter – and he'd been confined to bed in a darkened room, spewing up everything he ate in the previous week, until finally, hours later, the worst of the pain subsided and he was sent on his way. He'd had headaches before. Not too often, but enough to know this wasn't just an ordinary headache, or even a nasty one. It had to be something else, so he asked. Migraine, they said it was. He'd had them before, though only very rarely, so he hadn't immediately recognised it as such. It all made sense though, when they said it was likely stress induced. The whole tug of war was getting on his last nerve.

He wasn't going to back down, mind. Not now. Lennon started it, and he didn't seem the type to admit defeat. Well, neither was Paul, so he'd just started to ignore whatever he was feeling, and not show any emotion or weakness of any kind. Had there been cracks in his mask before, they were thoroughly plastered up now. Paul knew it meant that even the people he did like were being dealt a cold shoulder, but he had to if he had any change of not going completely mad. He knew that if he applied himself, he could come across completely unaffected by anything. That is, when he wasn't caught off-guard, or facing some serious, unexpected trouble. Right now, Paul was utterly fucked, feeling slightly desperate, and he knew it showed.

The entire company was sat on their foot lockers, inside the dorm. Normally, there was a designated classroom near the armoury for what they were going to do, but that part of the barracks was currently closed off due to severe leakage after a terrible bout of rain. Until the roof was fixed, several classes were moved to wherever they could be held, which is how they ended up in the dormitories. They'd been instructed to take apart their rifles, clean them, and then put them back together. Well, the taking apart and cleaning bit wasn't the issue. The putting it back together, however, was. It was only the second time Paul had done this, which put him behind the others who'd done it three times now. The day he spent in bed with a migraine, was also the day they were shown how these guns were assembled, and no one had bothered to show him. Probably, Paul supposed, because since everything went alphabetically, he and John were partnered up most of the time, and that was the last person who'd ever want to help Paul, wasn't it?

So, he had taken the thing apart very carefully, sometimes checking to see how the others were going about it. He had tried very hard to remember what went where, and Paul was about eighty - fuck that, make it ninety-nine - percent certain he made a mistake. Or rather, he seemed to be missing the whatsit... the thingy that went inside the other doohickey. Oh, right. The firing pin. Sounded important enough, anyway. He'd felt about for it, had even picked up his tub of grease – twice – even though it couldn't possibly be hiding under there. It seemed to simply have vanished, unless he did put it back where it belonged and merely forgot about it.

The only way to know for sure was to try and fire the blasted thing, which wasn't an option for obvious reasons: Paul would quite likely use his excellent aim to shoot Lennon in the bollocks, which would probably be frowned upon. It'd definitely get him kicked out of the army, which made the idea tempting, it was just that being jailed for a number of years didn't really seem too appealing. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, and that. Paul decided against it, though he amused himself for a bit by imagining the scene in his head until he remembered his predicament. As far as he could see, the other possibility was to start over, but that would mean he'd finish last again whereas now, he was at least keeping up with his nemesis. Paul was the first to admit Lennon was good at this stuff, so keeping up with him meant he wasn't doing too badly himself. Except of course that he fucked up, and John hadn't.

Paul pretended to be busy as he cast a covert glance around the dormitory. Sergeant Major Martin had his back turned, so he risked it and quickly lifted his bum to see if he'd accidentally sat on the pin. But it wasn't there either. To his left, Lennon was nearly finished. He looked suspiciously innocent, Paul thought. Could he have something to do with it? There had been that moment when a few bits had fallen to the floor and rolled over to his side... Before he could give it more thought, though, the Badge approached, closely followed by Captain Hayfield, who was their weapons instructor.

“Recruits Lennon and McCartney," the taller of the two men barked, causing at least half of the lads to stop what they were doing, providing Paul with an even bigger audience than he feared. "You appear to be finished. Are you?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” John bellowed, jumping to attention.

After a quick inspection, during which Paul kept hoping there'd be something wrong with the way Lennon had assembled his rifle, the Warrant Officer handed the rifle back to him. Paul very nearly groaned when he saw the appreciative expression on the Badge's face. Of course, everything would be in order. He hadn't really expected anything else, to be honest. Still, it felt a bit like a stab to the heart to hear those words:

“Well done, Recruit. Excellent work. Stand easy.”

The smirk on John's face told Paul all he needed to know. He was screwed. He'd known it, of course. He wasn't entirely stupid. But seeing that smile ghosting over the face Paul had come to despise so much only confirmed what he'd been trying to deny. And since several of the people in the dorm were still watching, the humiliation was going to be brutal. 

“Recruit McCartney, present your weapon.”

Hoping the missing part would go unnoticed, Paul did as he was told. As he stood squad and a single drop of sweat trickled down his temple in slow motion, he braced himself for what was to come.

 

-*-

 

**John**

 

He cast a sneaky sideways glance at McCartney. The boy looked like he just shat himself, and John knew exactly why, because the reason resided inside his right breast pocket. He knew it was only a matter of moments now until ickle Paulie would face public humiliation, and was looking forward to the show. It was high time Pretty Boy was put in his place.

Ever since the day the little wanker upstaged him at target practice, John had been waiting for a chance to get even. That git might have better aim - alright, pretty much perfect aim - and a much sharper eye than John could ever hope to have. And he, John, may have done not quite as well that day, mainly because he was too busy trying to distract McCartney to pay proper attention to the targets he was supposed to hit, but in the end he was the one that actually wanted this. The same couldn't be said for snivelling little Macca, who was obviously counting the days until he could go home. To his mum of course, who'd undoubtedly be waiting for him with tea and biscuits. He'd probably break down crying because someone had been mean to him. Well, he'd have something to weep about now, didn't he? Out of all the pranks he'd pulled so far, John thought this was a particularly good one. He'd been so smooth, nicking that firing pin without anyone ever noticing. He knew stealing records from NEMS would turn out to be good practice some day. Anyway, making McCartney search high and low for his underwear was fun, but child's play compared to this. This time, their commanding officers would be the ones to reduce that little snot's ego to cinders, and all John had to dow as look innocent. Which he did, though it took a lot of effort to stop himself from grinning when he noticed McCartney was a bit green around the gills. Was that sweat, trickling down his hairline? 

“Recruit McCartney.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major."

Not sounding so smug now, eh? John could almost hear a tremble in the lad's voice. Had he been soft, he might have felt sorry for the kid. Now, he just enjoyed the sound of it. It was almost as good as the contempt that was dripping from the Badge's voice as he spoke up, louder and more demanding than he'd sounded all day.

“Would you take this rifle into battle in its current state?”

“No, Sergeant Major!” Yeah, that was definitely a crack in there. John struggled to keep from laughing. 'Well he _could_ take it into battle,' John thought to himself, 'except the bloody thing wouldn't _fire_. It'd still make a pretty good bludgeon, though.'

A hint of exasperation was clearly audible when Martin continued. They were getting to the point now, and John couldn't wait to find out how much trouble McCartney would find himself in. “Why not, Recruit?”

“It's incomplete, Sergeant Major!” - 'No shit, Sherlock,' John instantly thought with such enthusiasm, he could only hope he hadn't said it aloud. He was pretty sure he hadn't, since he was biting his lip so hard he could taste blood.

“Indeed," the Badge scolded. "So, why did you choose to present it?”

Contrary to what John expected, McCartney somewhat straightened himself up before replying. “You ordered me to, Sergeant Major.” It was cheeky, and the most stupid thing he could have possibly said, and on some level, John respected him for it because it was also true. He hadn't been given a choice, had he? Still, what kind of nutter would say that to an officer? Well, that one, obviously. Clearly, the Sarge wasn't altogether amused.

“Don't blame it on me, McCartney. Where is the firing pin?”

Just like that, John didn't have to try and keep himself from smiling anymore. The urge to grin disappeared in an instant as he realised where the conversation was going. Fuck. He was going to tell on him for sure, he didn't doubt that for a second. And when that happened, it would be John who was going to face the consequences. He should've thought of that sooner, should've kicked that bloody pin underneath a wardrobe or something. If they found it on him, his goose was cooked. There was no way McCartney would pass up a chance to expose John.

“I don't know, Sergeant Major!”

“That won't do, Recruit," the Badge bristled, Bloody hell, that man was intimidating. "I'll ask you again: where is it?”

“I have reason to believe someone took it, Sergeant Major!”

“That is a very serious accusation, Recruit. Do you wish to tell me who you believe the perpetrator is?”

Well, that was it, then. That little weasel would tell on John to save his own skin. Any second now, he'd point a finger at him and say 'he did it,' or something like that. John braced himself. It wasn't going to be pretty.

“No, Sergeant Major.” Well, there you ha-... Wait, what? Did he just say no? Why? 

Clearly unaware of John's inner turmoil, the discussion continued, getting more and more tense by the second. Martin's voice kept rising, whilst Paul's was wavering dangerously. John didn't think he'd cry, but he didn't sound very confident anymore, which was a bad thing since the officer was trying to get him to come clear. “Well, let's see. There are only two people here who could be guilty of what you are claiming. Do you suspect Recruit Moore?”

For a good few seconds, Paul didn't say a word. Finally, he managed to mutter three words: “no, Sergeant Major.”

“That only leaves Recruit Lennon, then. Are you accusing him, Recruit?”

Again, there was a pause. Longer, this time. In fact, McCartney didn't answer the question at all, but just stood there, chewing on his bottom lip whilst staring blankly into the Badge's chest. John was somewhat taken aback. If the shoe was on the other foot, he wouldn't have hesitated to blame his opponent. But somehow, the lad seemed hesitant to make a direct accusation. Was that bloke soft in the head or something? Had to be, or maybe he was just scared that whatever the Badge could do, would pale compared to John's wrath.

“I asked you a simple question, Recruit." Even John flinched at the piercing sound of that voice. Though still dead posh, a hint of something more lower-class flirted around the edges of the Badge's words, which boomed through the room with such volume, John half expected the windows to start rattling. "Do you, or do you not accuse Recruit Lennon of taking the missing part?”

“I do, Sergeant Major.” That little rat. John just knew he'd betray him. He'd get him for that, but he'd have to think of a proper retaliation later, because in two long strides, that tall, fuming figure was in front of John, making him feel two feet tall.

“Recruit Lennon, Recruit McCartney is under the impression you've sabotaged his work. Have you?”

“No, Sergeant Major!” It was a blatant lie, and it had slipped out so fast, it even surprised John. Not that he ever had any intention of confessing; he was always going to try and save his hide. He'd just hoped for something a little less suspicious. With any luck, they'd still believe him. He was in the top-3 of the class, after all. John didn't dare meet the Badge's eyes, but even without looking, he knew his reply had been too fast and his voice too high to be credible. Crap... 

John involuntarily screwed his eyes shut when the Warrant Officer stepped forward until he stood so close to him, he could feel the man's breath on his skin. He half expected his bed and everything around it to be upturned like on that very first day. However, that didn't happen. Obviously, because there was no way John could have hidden the firing pin there. If he'd stuck it underneath the mattress, it simply would've fallen through the springs and onto the floor. He'd been sat on his footlocker, which was locked, so the only logical place to start looking was...

“Turn out your pockets, Recruit.”

John cursed himself. Why hadn't he considered this turn of events? Keeping the bloody thing on his body like that was a beginner's error. Like a murderer, waving the blood-stained knife around for all to see, or a robber trying to deposit the stolen cash in the same bank he just looted. Surely, John Lennon was a more seasoned prankster than this? It was that McCartney kid. He was making him careless. Well, he'd pay for it, if John was going to be around long enough to plot his revenge. Somehow, he felt that tiny pin might be what got him kicked out.

For a moment, he considered leaving it where it was, but something told him that would only make matters worse. The Badge didn't seem like the kind of person to shy away from having John patted down, or worse: strip-searched. The last thing he wanted was to stand in his smalls in front of his enemy, so he reluctantly emptied his pockets and dropped the missing part onto his blanket along with the cough drops, matches, handkerchief, and other insignificant bits and bobs he carried around. Though it ended up somewhere on the bottom of the pile, the firing pin stood out like a sore thumb, and the Warrant Officer instantly picked it up, disdain etched on his face.

“Let's see. Sabotage, theft, lying to a superior," Martin bristled, his voice dangerously low, which was somehow scarier than being yelled at. "What do you have to say for yourself, Recruit?”

John swallowed against the urge to throw up, and muttered, "It was just a joke, Sergeant Major."

"I'm not laughing, Recruit. Would you care to provide a better explantation?"

“I'm terribly sorry. I have no excuse, Sergeant Major." Well, sorry he got caught, mostly, but somehow, John had an inkling the Badge knew exactly that's what he had meant, if the rant he got was anything to go by.

“Damn right you don't," The Badge exclaimed, the angry words reverberating loudly through the dorm which had gone so quiet, one could hear a pin drop between every word. "I think standing guard tonight should give you ample opportunity to think about your actions, Recruit. You'll get another write-up in your file as well. That's two strikes, Recruit. For someone who wants to be here, you are doing a terribly efficient job of working towards expulsion! Have you got anything to add?”

There was plenty John wanted to say. He felt the punishment he received was unduly harsh, especially given the fact that no real harm was done. It was only a practical joke, wasn't it? Not even a successful one at that. Sure, he'd managed to humiliate McCuntney, but the verbal bashing he'd received was akin to a friendly pat on the head compared to what John had just been put through. Also, it was pouring outside, and didn't look like it'd stop any time soon. Even the thought of standing out in the rain all night made him shiver. He'd already been trying to ward off a cold for days. One night out there and he'd be spending a week in bed. And for what? A silly joke gone bad. It shouldn't have gone that way. But John bit his tongue and decided to play it safe. 

“No, Sergeant Major.”

He hated to admit it, but it was very much looking like a win for Pretty Boy. Perhaps he should stop keeping score before the fucker got the upper hand...

 

-*-

 

**Paul**

 

For a blissful moment, Paul felt victorious. Yes, it had been embarrassing to be caught presenting an incomplete weapon, but he'd been right about what happened, and John had been thoroughly humiliated in front of everyone. The sheer joy of seeing and hearing that arrogant arse be taken down a peg or two felt so good, he could just hug that codger Martin. He wouldn't, of course, but metaphorically speaking, he could. Just knowing he'd won a round without actually having to do anything for it miraculously made his appetite return and Paul thought he might actually be able to finish his dinner that day. He should have known it was too good to be true.

The drill instructor turned his head before he could wipe the smug grin off his face, and reappeared in Paul's direct line of sight so fast it was as if the man had somehow magically transported himself there. Paul actually had to blink a time or two to catch up with how fast the tables were turning again.

“What are you smiling about, Recruit McCartney?" Though not nearly as ominous as with John, the man's voice was anything but reassuring. "I'm not finished with you yet.”

The Badge reclaimed his spot, squarely in front of Paul: just within his personal space, which felt rather uncomfortable. “Look me in the eye, Recruit.” The voice was stern, but unexpectedly quiet. It sounded kinder than Paul had ever heard it, but somehow it intimidated him more than the usual verbal assault. 

Paul knew himself to be tall: nearly six foot, and possibly the tallest Recruit in his dormitory, though there were at least three blokes almost exactly the same height he was. Either way, he wasn't easily overlooked. And yet, he was short compared to the Sergeant Major, who must have had at least four inches on him. It wasn't the actual height difference that bothered him, though. Looking up into the piercing blue gaze of his superior, which he very reluctantly did, made him feel very small indeed. Somehow, Paul knew that even if he'd been six foot eight, he still would have felt exactly the same because it was his ego that was shrinking under that stare, and that wasn't a pleasant sensation at all.

“What Recruit Lennon did was inexcusable," the Sergeant Major said, speaking very deliberately, like a stern school teacher, or a disappointed parent. "But what you did wasn't right either. You violated one of the core principles of the army: you betrayed a fellow soldier. We never rat on each other, no matter how big of a mistake one of our own might make. The only exception to this rule is when innocent lives are at stake, or in the case of a serious crime. Do you understand?”

Being yelled at definitely was easier to handle than this, Paul thought, but he kind of understood what was being said. “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“Good. Now, make sure it doesn't happen again. Now keep in mind that I do believe you wouldn't have said anything if I hadn't pressured you. I also believe neither you, nor anyone else in this detail will be this easily persuaded to confess by the time you are properly trained to withstand a number of interrogation techniques. However, you will join Recruit Lennon and stand guard tonight. Not as punishment, but as a lesson in solidarity. I suggest the two of you use the time to settle your differences. Because frankly,” he looked from Paul to John and back again, “this petty squabble is getting tiresome. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Paul muttered. He heard John do the same, and with equally little conviction. Something might get settled that night, but Paul wasn't too sure it would their differences.


	5. Getting Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL!!!
> 
> Do you know that feeling, when one moment nothing happens whatsoever, and the next moment everything happens at once? My week in a nutshell! My updating schedule got knocked over when I got a killer migraine which knocked me off my feet for two days and the immediately after, one of my cats got very ill. He's still got a lot of recovering to do, but so far so good. Anyway, I had to help a friend finish a birthday video for Paul, and that means it's actually his 75th birthday today! Time to celebrate! I'm hoping to post this chapter today but there's also a special celebration at the Beatles Museum, which I might go to and which would mean travelling most of the day. So, here goes nothing...

**31 October 1960**

**Paul**

 

He wasn't too sure about it. In the nearly four months since he arrived at Aldershot, he never set foot in this part of the garrison. Paul didn't know what to expect, but he supposed there was only one way to find out. He pushed the door open and found himself a seat somewhere in the back. Was it possible for something to not be what you expected when you really didn't have a clue how it would look?

Paul glanced around the spacious chapel, which looked so different from the rest of the barracks, it was easy to imagine he was somewhere else entirely. Though definitely more sparse than the few churches he ever set foot in, the atmosphere was decidedly warmer. Had to be the carpeted floors, he supposed. Though not exactly inviting, it was a pleasant diversion from the nasty vomit-coloured linoleum and the drab green tiles he'd got used to. The light was different too, but that was easily explained by the stained glass windows. The were a lot more contemporary-looking than the ones he knew from the cathedrals back home, but then the entire chapel seemed to be relatively new. It was easy to see each window represented a different religion or a denomination anyway.

Paul immediately recognised the Catholic one. Though raised secularly, his mum had insisted on having him and Mike baptised, as proven by the RC on his ID tags. Of course, there had been RE in school and Paul had sung in a church choir for a little while so he was at least somewhat familiar with the kind of scenes that were present in cathedrals. This one wasn't too surprising in that regard.

The Church of England window was easy to identify as well, what with one of the figures in the glass being a knight bearing a shield that had the English flag on it. The least interesting to look at was the design which represented the Protestant church. Not too much going on there, really. Paul didn't have much trouble determining what the Jewish corner was either. The Star of David didn't leave much room for doubt, nor did the menorah.

Either way, the different windows made for a colourful scene, which felt a right sight better than those endless, off-white and moss green walls. After a minute or so, Paul leant back and closed his eyes, taking in the silence as slowly, some of the tension he'd been feeling in his neck and shoulder started to fall away and his mind began to drift.

“May I sit with you, son?”

Paul started, his heart leaping up into his throat as his eye flew open so fast it made the room spin for a second. He hadn't seen or heard anyone, thought he was alone. Well, clearly not, or someone wouldn't have been able to address him like that, Paul silently reminded himself whilst recovering from the shock. Remembering his manners, he politely smiled at the elderly man standing to his right, whose collar was adorned with a small, silver cross on either side and underneath his uniform jacket, a basic black and white CE priest's garb was visible. All those details, which he'd noticed in the blink of an eye, told him this had to be the chaplain. Made sense. Something about the man seemed to have a calming effect on him, Paul noticed as his heart rate returned to normal. He looked to be around his father's age; resembled him a little bit if he used his imagination. He had a kind face and bright green eyes that seemed to smile. He moved over, making room for the older man to sit.

“I don't believe I've ever seen you in here before, so you probably don't know my name yet," the priest smiled, extending his right hand as he did so. "I'm Father McKenzie, but the lads sometimes call me father Macca.”

Paul couldn't help but smile back as he shook the chaplain's hand. “That's what my friends call me all the time,” he grinned. “Minus the father part, obviously. I'm Paul, Paul McCartney.”

A merry chuckle momentarily disrupted the quiet, introspective feel of the room. “Well Paul, Paul McCartney, it would seem we have something in common then. Would you care to have a chat? Who knows what other similarities we may discover.”

Paul hesitated. The older man seemed nice enough, but he wasn't really in the mood for small talk. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to talk at all, least of all about the throbbing sense of loss he'd felt all day. He averted his gaze and chewed his bottom lip, wondering why he had come to the chapel in the first place. Any idiot could've guessed there would be someone there trying to look out for his spiritual wellbeing or some such shite. Fat lot of good that would do, anyway. It wouldn't change the past, would it? He was racking his brain for a polite way to say he preferred to be left alone when the preacher's hand on his arm interrupted his thoughts. He lifted his eyes to meet the chaplain's, which were now looking a tad worried. Just like that, it was as if a switch had been flicked. The kindness was still there, but instead of a cheeky glimmer, there was now something deep and profound in those inquisitive eyes.

“Are you alright, son? I hate to be blunt, but you look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Is there anything bothering you that you wish to talk about?”

Now that the man was speaking much more quietly, and in a lower register, there seemed an almost hypnotising quality to his voice. Paul's initial instinct was to say 'no’. When he opened his mouth to speak, though, he heard himself say, “I'm not sure...” Where did that come from?

The priest just looked Paul in the eye for a moment before responding. “You can say anything in here you know. Whatever you tell me, stays between us. And God, of course. But he won't rat on you either, I promise.” There was a hint of a grin again after that, breaking some of the tension Paul had felt building up inside of him. Maybe it wouldn't be as awkward as he feared after all. He didn't much like it when people were all serious or worse: condescending.

“Oh, but I haven't been to Paddy's Wigwam... I mean, church, in years," Paul blurted out, unable to stop himself. "And when did, it was just for the choir, to learn to sing better, you know. The stories and songs are alright, and all that, but. I don't really... You know. Is that a problem?” By the time he finished his sentence, his face had turned scarlet. Somehow, he didn't think using the cathedral's nickname in front of a clergyman would be appreciated, let alone more or less calling religion a bunch of stories. Why did he always have to say inappropriate things at the worst possible moments?

Much to Paul's surprise, Father McKenzie broke out in peals of laughter. “Now there's something I haven't heard in a while. You must be from Liverpool, am I right?”

“Yeah, I am," Paul said sheepishly. "Sorry about that...”

“Oh no, don't be,” the man chuckled. “No harm done, son, none at all. The last person to say that in front of me was someone I consider one of my dearest friends. Perhaps you met him and if you haven't, you'll have been acquainted with his work, since he's the barracks' head chef.”

Paul frowned. He didn't think there'd be more than one chef, but the one he knew didn't sound as if he came from Merseyside at all. “Do you mean Lieutenant Epstein? I had no idea he's Scouse.”

“Ah, you do know him,” the older man nodded. “There must be more to you than meets they eye, then. Normally, Recruits don't spend enough time in the kitchen to remember his name. He doesn't sound very Liverpudlian, does he? But anyway, to answer your question: it's perfectly alright if you're not religious, son. I'm not just here as a preacher. Counselling is just as much, if not more, a part of my job. So, what's troubling you, Paul?”

Paul looked at his hands and began to absent-mindedly pick at his cuticles. Eventually, he muttered, “Well... My mum died four years ago today...”

“I am very sorry to hear that. You must have been what, thirteen, fourteen at the time?” Again, all traces of jest were gone from the chaplain's voice and replaced with earnest when he spoke. Paul wondered how he did that. He himself was rather good at closing off his emotions, but switching from cheerful to solemn at the drop of a hat wasn't something he'd mastered yet.

“Yes, fourteen,” Paul confirmed. “My brother was only twelve."

“That's far too young to suffer such a tremendous loss," the priest stated simply. The way he said it made Paul grateful; he hated when people reacted hysterically to the news. "Can you talk about it? It might do you good to confide in a stranger. That is unless you'd rather not."

“There's not much to talk about, really,” Paul shrugged in response. “When she got ill, my brother and I got sent away to live with our auntie and uncle. A few days later, we were told she'd died. We weren't even allowed to go to the funeral. Two months later, we came back home and that was that.” He sighed, willing himself to keep the hurt safely locked away where he'd put it years before. “It wasn't something we could discuss, you know. Too hard on da' and all that, so we learnt to cope and went on with our lives.”

“Have you been able to grieve at all?”

He shook his head, still stubbornly trying to peel small bits of skin from his fingertips. “Not really. Mike was, a bit because he was so little at the time. They wouldn't tell him off for crying but I guess people expected me to be stronger or something, so I just pushed it away and put on a smile. That's how we were brought up, you know? What's the use in worrying, and that, so I kind of just focused all my energy on school and my guitar. It hurt too much to dwell on it, you know, so I more or less ignored it. Crying wasn't going to bring her back anyway. Neither was talking, so nobody mentioned mum anymore after a while."

“So, what made you decide to come here today? Do you think you wanted to confide in someone, or did you have a different reason to walk all the way over here on this rainy afternoon?” Had anyone else asked such a direct question, Paul might've pulled back into his shell. For some reason, it didn't seem intrusive coming from this person. Or, maybe, he had been hoping to get it all off his chest. There was a lot going on, after all, and he didn't much fancy another migraine or anything like that.

“I don't know. I'm just so fed up with it all, you know?” The sudden ferocity in his own voice took Paul somewhat aback. Even he could hear the frustration in his words. "Sorry, I didn't mean to shout."

"Shout all you like, I've heard far worse," Father McKenzie shrugged. “Fed up with what, Paul?”

“This. Being here. I didn't want to join the army; my dad made me come here. Said it was either this or find somewhere else to live. Easy for him to say; who's going to give a house to an unemployed teenager? I tried to find work, I really did, but jobs are few and far between in Liverpool and nobody would hire me. I either didn't have the skills they needed, or I was overeducated, you know? It was useless, so I really had no choice.” He hesitated but then decided to get everything off his chest. “Being forced to come here was bad enough. But there's also this bloke I've been havin' a barney with since they day we arrived. I didn't come here looking for trouble, it kind of just found me and now it won't stop...” Deep down, Paul realised he wasn't completely truthful. Until recently, he'd done nothing to even try and broker peace. In fact, he still hadn't attempted to bury the hatchet; he only put it down. Somewhat.

“That does sound stressful." There was a hint of scepticism in the statement, but so far he seemed to get the benefit of the doubt. "What happened?”

“Don't know, really. We're just so different. He loves it here, you know. He's really good at most of the army stuff too. There are some things I do better, and he doesn't like that one bit. But what can I do, you know? I can't help it if things are easy, can I?” For a moment, Paul just chewed his bottom lip, trying to put his finger on what was going wrong between him and John. More or less thinking aloud, he muttered, "I just don't know. We're just always at each other's throats, you know? I don't even know why. We just are. It's like he looks down on me because I don't like it here the way he does. It's like he's constantly judging me, and he finds me lacking, based on this one difference of opinion. Does that make sense?” He looked up to meet the chaplain's eyes, only to discover they looked back at him with the same expression his dad got when he knew his son wasn't telling the whole truth.

“And do you judge him, Paul? Be honest now.”

“Of course not," he protested, more as a knee-jerk reaction than an honest answer. Not particularly enjoying the direction in which the conversation was headed, Paul sighed and relented. "Alright maybe... I don't know. Well yeah, I guess I do, a bit.”

“Only a bit? Or is it possible you've pigeonholed this lad, and you're not giving him a chance to escape from the box in which you sorted him? You know, exactly like he's probably doing to you?"

Paul thought on that for a few moments. If he was perfectly fair, he had to admit he had made his mind up about John the moment he'd laid eyes on him. And he never did offer an olive branch, not even when there was ample opportunity to talk. They had their chance that night they stood guard, but they had both stubbornly kept their mouths shut all night. He was as much to blame for the lack of communication as John. But admitting that wasn't easy.

“Alright, maybe you've got a point. But what do you suggest I do? He won't talk to me either, you know.” The concept of at least coexisting without the constant insults and juvenile pranks was more appealing than keeping up the feud, but Paul had no idea how to achieve that. He didn't know John very well at all. He'd seen him joking around with other blokes, so he knew for a fact John was capable of being a normal person. Somehow, he seriously doubted it would be as simple as just suggesting they try and get along. "He won't just shake hands and agree to get along."

“Perhaps he won't, but you never know unless you try,” the older man reasoned. “You know what? Think about it for a while. If and when you or he, or both of you want someone to help you talk things through, I'll be right here to mediate. Does that sound good?”

“It does, thanks.” The smile he offered the chaplain was genuine; he did feel much calmer than before he entered the chapel. “I'm glad we talked, Father. Is it alright if I just sit here for a bit?”

“Of course, stay as long as you like. And if you think of anything you wish to chat about, even if it's just to see what else we have in common aside from our nickname, I won't be hard to find. Alright?” Father McKenzie offered another handshake before getting up and casually wandering back to wherever it was he'd been before he'd joined Paul. Just before he was out of earshot, Paul could hear him chuckling, “Paddy's Wigwam... Brilliant...”

 

-*-

 

**December 1960**

 

**John**

 

John was bored. There was still an hour left before they were going on their weekly 20-mile march, and he finished his chores ages ago. His boots were so clean he could see himself in them, his locker was organised to perfection, and he'd polished the many silver buttons of his as of yet unused dress uniform, just to kill time. Without much else to do but wait, John felt as if the time moved slower than treacle on a cold day.

The basic training part of the program was nearly done, and everything had become close to second nature to John. That was probably part of the reason for his boredom: all the things that had taken effort at first had become such an ordinary part of his day, they took up only a fraction of the time they used to. John had never had much patience for being stuck in a rut, and he craved a new challenge beyond anything else. He'd get one in a few weeks when he'd return from his Christmas break and until then, he concluded that getting on McCartney's goat would be as good a way to pass the time as anything. Not much else to do anyway, unless he wanted to shine his boots yet another time...

The thing was; John had no idea where the cagey fucker could be. In fact, he hadn't seen that much of him for the past six weeks or so, at least not during their free time. The few times he was around, he hadn't really responded to any of John's taunts, which was rather a sudden change if not an annoying one. It was obvious Paul was avoiding him, which he felt was a rather cowardice thing to do. Of course, John was starting to run out of ideas by now anyway. Perhaps he'd be able to come up with some new stuff back home. Surely, Pete or Ivan would know of a few things he hadn't tried yet...

“Recruit Lennon!”

As he sprung to attention, John quickly scanned his recent memory. Could he be in trouble over something? No, because McCartney hadn't given him the chance to do anything big and he never really fought with anyone else. Not seriously, anyroad. There'd be the occasional jibe, the random prank, or the odd shouting match, but nothing major because John actually liked the other blokes, so he usually went easy on them and never did anything remotely bad enough to receive a warning. So if he wasn't going to be reprimanded, then why did the Badge address him?

“Yes, Sergeant Major!”

John's eager response was met with a dismissive hand gesture. “Stand easy, Recruit. The chaplain asked for a volunteer to help him set up the stage for the Christmas variety show. You're volunteering.”

Unable to help himself, John risked a cheeky reply. The officer did seem to be in a somewhat more pleasant mood, probably because he, too, was looking forward to some time off. “I am, Sergeant Major?”

“Yes, you are, Recruit," the Badge scolded, looking a lot sterner than expected. Perhaps he wasn't in that good a mood after all. "And don't be smart with me or I'll find some other, less pleasing jobs for you to do.”

By now, John knew all too well what kind of jobs those were. If he never had to peel another spud in his lifetime, it'd be too soon. And he didn't even want to remember the time he was made to polish the muddy – and smelly – boots of all the Recruits in his barracks. So he reckoned he better heed the drill instructor's warning, and schooled his face. “Understood, Sergeant Major.”

Apparently satisfied to be given the proper respect, the older man nodded. “Very well. I trust you'll know where to find the chapel? You will report there right now. You can square away your kit later.”

John didn't even mind being given alternative orders. If anything, he welcomed them, because it meant doing something different than what he'd grown accustomed to over the past months. Not to mention he hadn't been looking forward to this particular march anyway, what with the constant downpour of sleet and the sharp wind which made any exposed skin feel like it was being cut by dozens of razor blades. After a soggy autumn, winter was winning ground fast, and he hated the cold. The thick, woollen jumpers and outdoors gear were warm enough, but they also itched like hell, so he didn't mind one bit that he'd have to work indoors. John had been meaning to pull another prank - one of the last in his arsenal and not the best, but it'd be good for a laugh at least - somewhere around the halfway point of the hike. In that regard, it was almost a pity to miss it. He supposed pissing off his nemesis one more time before the holidays would have to wait, John shrugged as he reached the chapel at the far end of the barracks.

“Ah, wonderful you must be the volunteer I asked for," a beaming priest exclaimed even before John got the chance to close the door behind him. Apparently, he's been expected. "Come in, son. I don't believe we've met. I'm Father McKenzie. And you are...?”

Shaking the man's hand, he muttered, “John, sir. John Lennon.”

“Nice to meet you, John. Now, let me get straight to the point: how well do you know your way around a hammer?” As he spoke, the man who was well old enough to be John's father, walked towards the front of the large space, where some planks and a few tools were scattered haphazardly across the floor. Somewhere amongst the mess, he spotted a used first aid kit.

“Well enough, sir” he grinned.

“Brilliant. I have a habit of hitting my thumb," the priest chuckled whilst showing the extremity in question which was indeed showing signs of recently having been bashed with something heavy, "so if you can do the hammering, I might start the new year with both of my thumbs still attached. Shall we jump right in? The sooner we start, the sooner we're done.”

Had John been a bit paranoid about being chosen for this task, the relaxed attitude of the chaplain quickly put his mind at ease. Of course, it was easy to enjoy himself. Not only did he get to put all of his pent-up frustration into the hammering of those nails, the comfortable and humorous conversation cheered John up greatly, too. he never would've guessed the chaplain would be so... Well, jolly. Had he been fat and sporting a red suit and white beard, he easily could've been Father Christmas, John reckoned as he nearly fell about laughing at a rather cheeky joke he never would've expected from a man of the cloth.

Between doing some serious hard work and the great atmosphere, time flew by. Two hours after his arrival, John found himself sat on the frontmost pew, wiping his brow after the preacher suggested they take a break for tea. And sure enough, minutes later, the two of them were enjoying a piping cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits, which John wolfed down not just because he was famished, but also because they were the best thing he'd tasted in ages.

After having admired their progress for a little while, Father McKenzie broke the silence inasmuch as the sounds of chewing and slurping could be considered as such. “So John, would I be correct when I guess your home is up the Pool, as they say?'

Coming from someone who very obviously came from the south, the term sounded rather comical. “You would, padre” John chuckled, “why?”

“I just thought I recognised the accent, is all." For a beat or two, John thought that was it, but after a big gulp of his tea, the preacher continued. "There are quite a few Scousers here, you know. In fact, many of the people on this base I like best are Liverpudlians. But don't tell anyone I said that because I'm not supposed to play favouritism in my line of work.”

“I won't,” John grinned. “Are there really that many, though? I mean, I heard there were, but I can't say I've met that many yet.”

“You must've looked in the wrong places, then," was the matter-of-fact response. "Let's see. There's Chef Epstein, who runs the kitchen. I hope you don't mind me saying this, John, but I've got the feeling you most likely met him.”

“Whatever gave you that idea,” John smirked. “I'm completely innocent, they framed me, it was the other bloke, I swear!" He laughed loudly at the incredulous snort coming from the older man. "Yeah, I've had the pleasure. Must've singlehandedly peeled a lorryload of potatoes by now. The man knows how to keep you busy, doesn't he? But is he Scouse? He sounds so posh.”

“He does, doesn't he? But he really is. He baked these delicious biscuits, by the way. Anyway, there's Private Starkey of course, whom you might know as the barber. He's usually the first person people meet when they arrive here.”

“Yeah, I remember him,” John mused, involuntarily raising a hand to his hair, which by now was nearly two inches long. "Nice bloke. Funny."

“Nearly everyone gets along with him. Especially those whose head he doesn't reduce to a bowling ball," Father McKenzie grinned. "Which he will to you and your peers again when you come back from Christmas holiday, I'm afraid. Let's see... There are a few officers from your city, and, of course, several of your fellow Recruits. Have you befriended any since you arrived here?”

'I wouldn't say befriended, no,” John murmured as a vague feeling of comprehension was starting to form in the pit of his stomach. His answer wasn't entirely accurate since he had befriended one Scouser very early on in the program, but then there was that other one who had a much bigger impact on his daily life... He was starting to suspect where the conversation was going and wondered if it was a setup.

Seemingly unperturbed, the chaplain helped himself to a second biscuit before casually asking, “what would you say, then? Don't worry, anything you say stays between us.”

There it was. That couldn't be a coincidence. Clearly, someone had been unable to keep their gob shut about his little tiff - alright, feud - with McCartney. But who was responsible? Had Pretty Boy said anything? Was that why he'd been sent here, to be slapped on the wrist like a naughty schoolboy and to be told to play nice?

“Look, Father," John started, irritation curling around his voice and threatening to ruin his good mood, "why am I here, really? Where are you going with this?”

“I thought we were just having a conversation, John. I wasn't mistaken, was I? What do you think this is?”

It sounded genuine enough, but John wasn't convinced. He smelt a rat, and the stench reminded him a lot of McCartney. “Feels like a fucking interrogation to me,” he grumbled.

“I'm sorry you feel that way. Look, I'll be fair with you, John," the preacher continued, the casual cheerfulness evaporating like snow before the sun. He was very much looking and sounding like a teacher or a dad now, and John wasn't altogether sure if he liked it. In fact, he knew he preferred the easy-going version of the old preacher. Still, there didn't seem to be a lot he could do, since he hadn't been given permission to leave. So, he listened, albeit reluctantly and suspiciously. "Whenever I ask for a volunteer to help around here, whoever shows up nearly always turns out to need someone to talk to. Sometimes they get sent, sometimes they come out of their own free will. You've been sent, am I correct?”

“You are, but I don't want to talk.”

Ignoring the petulant tone in John's voice, Father McKenzie shrugged as if to say he was only following orders, which John found difficult to believe. After all, chaplains didn't really answer to anyone. “Your Warrant Officer apparently thought you would, or should. And frankly son, your demeanour tells me you do have something to discuss. What it is, I don't know, and I won't know unless you tell me. I might be able to help you know, it's what I do. You didn't think I spent all my time writing sermons, did you?'

“Well...”

To his surprise, the chaplain burst out laughing again, changing from serious to cheerful in a split second. Remarkable, really, though John doubted he'd got the last of the lecturing. “I like your honesty, John. Anyway, I really think you'd feel better if you'd talk about whatever it is that got you sent here. But until you're ready to do that, shall we get back to work? That stage isn't going to miraculously build itself. Trust me, I've prayed for it, but no luck so far. Perhaps, if we complete the job quickly, we might be able to charm Chef Epstein into giving us some more of those biscuits. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan, Padre,” John grinned, feeling quite relieved to be let off the hook - for the moment. He was just about to pick up his hammer when he heard himself say, “There's this bloke I hate, is that something I could discuss with you?”

For several seconds, the silence was deafening. When Father McKenzie spoke, he sounded almost shocked. “That's a very strong word John and not one I'm accustomed to hearing in this room. You'll have to forgive me for being a bit taken aback to hear such a term being used in here. But of course, you can talk to me about anything. Shall we sit?”

“It's quite simple, really,” John mused when they'd reclaimed their seats, which hadn't even got the chance to cool yet. “There's this kid in my group. My team mate for most things, actually. He's my polar opposite, and I can't stand to breathe the same air as him. I've known from the moment I saw him I knew we wouldn't get along. He's got this air about him like he's better than everyone else. I don't know,' he shrugged not sure how exactly to explain what annoyed him so much about McCartney, “It's just an arrogant little shit, and I hate him.”

"It would seem that you do," the older man sighed, clearly still not comfortable with John's choice of words even though he didn't comment on it anymore. “Have you ever tried talking to him? Those things you say sound very serious, and I wonder how realistic your ideas about this young man are. I have spoken to nearly everyone on this base, but I've never come across anyone who fits that description, John.”

“You can't have met McCartney yet, then.” John scrutinised the chaplain's face to see if the name rang any bells. If it did, the older man did a good job at hiding it, because there was nothing to indicate he either knew the bloke or had any opinion on him whatsoever. The expression of concern was unchanged, making John wonder why someone who was supposed to provide all sorts of counselling would be so upset by a simple spat between a couple of lads he didn't even know.

“Perhaps not," he finally said, never indicating whether or not he had ever spoken to Pretty Boy. "But then again, for all you know, I have and I've just seen a side of him you haven't. Whether or not that is the case seems less than relevant, John. Tell me, is this animosity you feel problematic? Are you simply not talking to each other, or does it go further than that?”

“It's more,” John admitted reluctantly. “Much more. We yell at each other, we do stuff to make each other's life hell. We've got into a fist fight, a time or two. It's not just me that hates him, Padre. It's mutual. He gives as good as he gets, it's not just me.”

“That's very serious, John. You need to find a way to resolve your issues, or you will end up paying the price.” The older man's gaze pierced John's. “Life's too short for holding grudges. Nobody knows if we get to live another day, especially in our line of work. If a war breaks out, who's to say you'd live to see the end of it? That's the risk of this job we've chosen to do, John, and it's a reality we must accept. I would urge you to try and find a way to live in peace with this young man. If not for his sake, then for your own. I'm sure you'll always have your differences, but please try to find a common ground. You may have more in common with this lad than you think, and you'll never know unless you talk to him. Will you do that, John? Could you at least try?”

John supposed the man had a point, even if it was a bit dramatic. Surely, he wouldn't have any regrets if he died whilst still hating McCartney's smug little face? Then again with his luck, they'd be shipped off to war together and those ridiculously big eyes would be the last thing he ever saw before carking it. Not exactly the most appealing idea, that. Perhaps if they got along, or at least could stand to be within the same time zone, things might be easier. “I'm not making any promises, Padre. I find it very hard to believe I could have anything in common with that spoiled little prick. We're worlds apart, he and I.”

“But you'll try, right?"

He sighed, wanting the conversation to be over already. “Sure I'll try. Now, let's build that stage. The sooner we can have some more of those biscuits, the better.”

Three days later, during the long train journey back to Liverpool, John let his mind wander back to the conversation. Did the chaplain have a point? Or was he just full of it? He thought about the face he'd learnt to despise so much. No, the chaplain must be wrong. There was no way that Paul bloke had anything of significance in common with John Lennon. He was just a spoiled little twat, John was sure of it. Satisfied with the self-affirming conclusion, he relaxed and closed his eyes, allowing his promise to gently drift into that part of his mind John never really accessed. He slowly nodded off, knowing he still had a few hours left before he'd be back at Mendips, where he would spend ten wonderful McCartney-free days.

 

 

 


	6. Mean Mister Mustard

**24 December 1960**

 

**Paul**

 

“Dad! Our kid's home!”

Paul just about managed to drop his kit and shut the back door behind him before his younger brother came crashing into him with the kind of childlike enthusiasm he would've expected from a puppy, not from a nearly-seventeen-year-old. Given that it had taken Mike about three seconds flat to discover his arrival, he suspected the kid had been lying in wait. The thought that his presence was so welcomed by someone warmed Paul's heart and for the first time in months, he felt truly cheerful.

“Happy Christmas Mikey,” he said warmly as he pulled the lad into a tight hug. “I've missed you.”

“Missed you too.” The reply sounded somewhat muffled, what with Mike's face being buried in Paul's heavy coat. The moment he loosened his death grip on the boy, Mike emerged with an almost accusing frown on his forehead which, due to the sparkle in his bright blue eyes, didn't do much to intimidate Paul. “It was a drag, not having you around.”

“Because you had to do all the chores by yourself, right?” Paul ruffled Mike's hair, which earned him a loud huff. “I'm just havin' you on, mate. I wouldn't pick a fight with someone your size. Bloody hell, what have you been eating? You must've grown an inch since I last saw you.”

“An inch and a half, Da' says. He reckons I'll be taller than you soon.” Mike took a step back and scrutinised Paul with an expression which reminded him painfully of their mother, who used to have the ability to express her concern with a single glance. After a few moments, he pointedly stated, “you look different.”

Paul gasped in mocked shock, bringing a hand to his chest for added effect. Of course, he knew what Mike was talking about. He'd lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time, giving him a slightly sickly appearance despite the increase in muscle mass. He could've guessed his brother would instantly catch on, but rather than make an issue of it, Paul decided to save his mood and the holiday by deflecting. “It's the hair, isn't it? You should've seen it before, son. I looked a right bowling ball when they were through with me. They shave it all off every three months, you know. Speaking of baldness,” he grinned as a familiar figure strolled into the tiny kitchen, “Hi, Da'. Happy Christmas!”

“Welcome home Paul, it's good to see you.” In a rare display of affection, Jim McCartney pulled his firstborn into a quick hug, after which he patted him firmly on the back a few times. Seemingly as surprised by this sudden onset of sentimentality as Paul was, Jim straightened his tie and turned his attention to the gas cooker. “You arrived at the perfect time. I was just going to put the kettle on. I'm sure you'll fancy a brew.”

“Sounds lovely, ta'.” For the next minute or two, Paul leant lazily against the dining room doorframe, taking in the familiar scene. Nothing said 'home' like the sight of his father pottering about the kitchen with a flowery apron tied around his slightly protruding waist, putting the kettle on for a cuppa. Aldershot seemed so far away now, like a completely different dimension that just as easily could have existed only in Paul's imagination. If it weren't for the uniform he was wearing, he could almost forget he was due back there after just a week and a half of freedom.

Unwilling to waste a lot of time pondering his return and what - or rather, who - he would be facing again, Paul decidedly put the inevitable out of his mind. Instead, he allowed himself to get so caught up in the warm feeling of being home, that it took him a while to realise his brother - who he'd half expected to be off doing whatever he fancied doing these days - was hovering around so awkwardly, Paul couldn't help but raise a quizzical eyebrow. "Is something wrong, Mike?"

“Wrong? No," the younger boy stammered, looking terribly embarrassed. "It's just, er... Can I take your bag upstairs for you or something?"

“I suppose you could, seeing as how you've got two hands, both of which seem to be functioning," Paul grinned, amused by Mike's uncharacteristic behaviour. "But I don't see why you'd want to; it's very heavy, you know. Or could it be that your offer isn't entirely selfless? Hoping to find something interesting in there, by any chance?”

No sooner had Paul posed his question or Mike's cheeks took on a shade of pink that clashed fantastically with the reddish tint in his blond hair. Just as he thought, Paul chuckled to himself, some things just never changed. Well, if Mike was going to act like a six-year-old on the morning of his birthday, then he could expect to be treated as such.

Still grinning, Paul turned around and picked up the dark blue beret he'd dropped on the sideboard, half atop the bread bin, casually twirling it as he positioned himself in front of Mike. “Stand still for me,” he commanded, faffing about with the cap until it was aligned perfectly on his brother's head, bossily slapping away Mike's hand when he tried to shift it. If the Badge could see it, he'd surely agree it was done exactly according to regulation even though he'd probably object to the thing being worn by a civilian.

Stepping back until he stood side by side with his dad, who'd abandoned the teapot for a moment to watch the silliness between his sons, Paul crossed his arms and nodded firmly to indicate his approval. “There, you look much more up to the task now. Do you still want to risk life and limb, sifting through your brother's smelly socks in search of a hidden treasure? There's no telling if you'll live to tell the tale, you know. They haven't been washed in a week.”

Mike pulled a face, but nearly immediately wiped it off in favour of what was possibly meant to be an air of intense determination. It might've worked too if the sloppy Scout's salute hadn't completely botched the attempt at pretending to be a real soldier. Then again, he never was the kind to take anything too seriously, Paul mused. It was exactly what he loved so much about Mike: his natural ability to make people laugh. As Mike's eyes kept shifting to the massive bag leaning against the loo door, Paul waved him off. “Well, have at it, then.”

“He really did miss you a lot,” Jim said when Mike thundered up the stairs, stomping hard enough to make the teacups rattle in the cupboard. He poured out two mugs of tea and handed one to Paul before they moved to sit down at the table in the back room, where Paul nursed his tea after fixing it just the way he liked it. He didn't really have a lot to say, so he just waited.

For a few tense moments, in which the silence was only broken by the noises Mike was making upstairs, which sounded an awful lot to Paul like his bedroom being wrecked by a herd of elephants, his dad looked up to meet Paul's gaze. “Michael was so upset about not having you around, he barely spoke two words to me the first weeks after you left. More than once, I caught him in your room, listening to your Rock and Roll records, or strumming your guitar. It wasn't really until after your first telephone call that he accepted the new situation and reverted to his normal self and even then, I could tell he resented me for sending you off to the army. I suppose reality cured him of the idea that you being an elite soldier was fanciable. He's obviously proud of you but I doubt he realised it'd take you away from home for such a long time. He's been keeping an eye on the door all day today, even though he knew you wouldn't return before tea. I'm not ashamed to admit I've missed you too, Paul. The house has been terribly quiet without you here.”

Paul felt the urge to remind his father on whose insistence he'd signed up for the extended training program, and that he would never have left home in the first place if he'd been given a choice, but he immediately shook it off. It was Christmas Eve after all, and he didn't want to waste any of his free time arguing over something he and his Da' would never agree on. Besides, that speech had been one of the longest monologues old Jim McCartney had ever produced in front of him, so Paul swallowed his pride and forced himself to look and sound amiable. “It's good to be home, Da'. I've missed you too." Changing the subject to something safer, he muttered, "I half expected Dot to be here too, though. She knows I'm back for the holidays, doesn't she?”

“Of course," Jim nodded, looking visibly more relaxed now that it was clear Paul wasn't about to start a row. "She's been 'round the house a few times, though not as often now that she's working at the bank. Last time she stopped by, she let us know her parents were taking her on holiday for Christmas. She said she'd be back in time for New Year's, and she promised to come calling as soon as possible. That must've been a month ago and I haven't seen her since, but I'm sure she's very eager to see you. Now, drink your tea, Paul. You look parched.”

Paul obediently took a large gulp, which nearly scalded his palate. He'd nearly forgotten one of the most valuable lessons about Jim Mac's tea-making skills: small sips only, or be prepared to walk around with blisters on your tongue. He poured some more milk into the cup and tried again after chuckling, “nothing escapes your attention does it, dad?”

“Not much, no,” Jim said earnestly. “For instance, I notice you're looking wan, like someone who's recently been ill. I didn't expect you to lose that much weight in so little time, son. Your aunts are going to have kittens when they see you like this. Are you quite alright, Paul? Doesn't the army feed you properly?"

“I'm fine, dad. It's hard work, is all, loads of sports and lifting heavy things so we get fit and strong. Can't have a bunch of fatties going to battle for them, can they? And don't be silly; they feed us plenty, why wouldn't they? I reckon it'd be bad for business if they'd let us starve, you know,” Paul laughed, even though he was just putting on a brave face. “The food's fine too, but it can't compare to Aunt Millie's scouse or Auntie Jin's roast beef. Or your tomato soup, for that matter." No sooner had he said it, or Paul's stomach growled loudly. It had, after all, been several hours since he last ate something.

“Only about an hour to go 'till tea, but I'll turn a blind eye if you decide to have a snack," his father said, motioning vaguely at the shelf where the biscuit tin was kept. "Millie baked something for you if I'm not mistaken. Just don't let your brother see it, and don't eat too much. I don't want either of you to spoi-...”

Jim was rudely interrupted by Mike's raucous return. Paul had heard him coming, which wasn't saying a lot since he'd been anything but quiet. However, he had not expected to be pounced by the kid, who nearly knocked his father's teacup off the table in his hurry to reach Paul whom he all but smothered in a bone-crushing hug. “Ta', Paul, it's my favourite kind!"

Catching the slightly confused look on his Dad's face, Paul gently pushed Mike off him and chuckled, “I guess that means you discovered the chocolate bar that was buried somewhere underneath my laundry, and which was meant to be a birthday present."

"Birthday? But I already-..."

"...ate it? I can see that," Paul laughed, jabbing a finger at a small chocolate stain near the corner of Mike's mouth. "Sorry, Dad, it looks like Mike's appetite is spoilt already. Oh well. More for me, then..."

 

-*-

 

**1 January 1961**

 

**John**

 

“So the warden has finally let you out for the day, has she? About time too!” Stuart chuckled at his own joke and offered John a cigarette, which he gladly accepted. He hadn't had a smoke in two days. He was certain he was supposed to have a full pack somewhere, but he couldn't find it. Perhaps Mimi had thrown it out, he mused. He filled his lungs and relished the sensation of the warm smoke before he carefully exhaled and threw a cheesed off look at his friend.

“Watch it la', that's my aunt yer talkin' about.”

Stuart wasn't wrong per se, John mused as they leisurely strolled from Stu's home just off Sefton Park, where John had appeared on a whim, past the partially frozen boating lake and the derelict Palm House to the roundabout on Penny Lane, one of their favourite places to hang out. It occurred to John that Stu's teasing remark was actually spot-on. Mimi had in fact been more or less forcing John to spend most of his holiday at home, arguing that if he had any respect for the person who raised him – namely she – he would have the decency to keep her company rather than run off with his friends.

It was a ridiculous demand, and John had told her as much in a very direct manner, but he'd ended up humouring her for the most part anyway, thinking it was in his best interest to keep her in a good mood. Who else was going to wash his clothes? Not Cyn, that much he soon discovered. He'd been allowed out on Boxing Day, but he'd been mostly cooped up since. It wasn't until after all of his laundry had been done that John had put his foot down and threatened to stay in Aldershot for Easter if he wasn't allowed to go and see his friends. Of course, he would've gone out with or without permission, but at least this way he wouldn't have to spend his last day at home looking at his aunt's scowling face.

“Oh come on, John. You're complaining about her all the time," Stu reminded him. "Remember the other day, when you rang me and she made you hang up after ten minutes? I recall you saying a few choice words then, mate.”

“Yeah, but just because I do that, doesn't mean anyone else gets to talk about her that way," John rebutted, deftly avoiding an icy puddle and nearly getting run over by a car in the process. Without his glasses on, he hadn't seen the bloody thing coming.

Stu shook his head, grinning broadly as he pulled John back onto the kerb. “Yer an enigma, John Lennon. But I guess that's why I like you. So, what's the plan? Go chippy, or what?”

John looked around. Penny Lane may usually have been one of the busiest parts of Liverpool, now that it was the first of January, the place was quite deserted. The green double decker buses that passed by the terminal were mostly empty, and the few people that were out and about went about their business without lingering. He couldn't blame them; it was cold, patches of trampled snow and black ice made walking the streets a death-defying act, and it looked like they were going to get more snow before the day was through. There was some activity near a very familiar spot, though. Just looking at the place made John's mouth water with anticipation.

“Chippy sounds great, Stu," he nodded, making a beeline for the warmth of the fish and chips shop. "Haven't had any for months, you see. Let's hang out and keep our eyes open for some talent, too. I could use a lay before it's back to self-service.”

Stu raised an eyebrow. “What about Cyn then?”

“Got herself the flu, didn't she? No action to be got there mate,” John shrugged. He vividly remembered wondering why he hadn't telephoned first instead of making the long trip into Hoylake unannounced. If he'd known the effort would be for nought, he wouldn't have wasted his Boxing Day trying to get into Cyn's pants. Just thinking of the fun he could have had during the hours he'd spent on various buses just to be told his girlfriend was indisposed made John groan in frustration.

“Arr eh!”

The sympathy softened John's mood a bit. “Is right, man. So, what do you say? I'm buyin' the scran and you can lift the latches.”

Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from the shelter on the roundabout, their fingers and lips greasy from the food, but their appetites thoroughly satisfied. Well, those appetites, anyway. There hadn't been any girls around that tickled their fancy, so that was still something to address.

John had just finished a long rant about his nemesis, or rather, it had been cut short by a pointed remark from Stu. After repeating the same insults for the third time, John had been gobsmacked when Stu suddenly deadpanned that the last time he'd heard John nattering on about one person for so long, had been when he'd first fallen in love with Cynthia. The implication had certainly shut John up, though not before telling Stu that if he ever had the nerve to suggest such a thing again, John would dismember him.

It was the most offensive and idiotic thing anyone had ever said to him and if it had been anyone else, John definitely would've kicked his teeth in then and there. He still might, he wasn't sure yet. Just to be safe, he'd dropped the subject anyway and now he was ready to stretch his legs and focus on something that would get his mind off Paul and the awkward smell that still lingered in John's clothes, even after all visible traces of McCartney's practical joke were gone.

They crossed the street, dodging a few cars along the way, and headed back in the direction of Stu's home. They didn't get far before John's mood was properly ruined. Right there, in the lee of the church they were passing, with his tongue stuck down some bird's throat, stood none other than McCartney.

“Well, Stu, looks like you'll get the chance to find out for yourself how much of a knob that bloke I told ye about is. That's him right there.”

 

  
-*-

 

**Paul**

 

“Are you finishing that?”

Paul emerged long enough from his snogging session to smirk disbelievingly at George, who was longingly ogling the remaining fish and chips that lay forgotten on a low wall behind him and Dot. Cold as stone by now, no doubt, yet George clearly had his mind set on it. “You can't possibly still be hungry after that massive portion you just devoured.”

His younger friend looked absolutely unperturbed by Paul's incredulous remark. He simply shrugged and flashed him a fanged smile. “So, are you done with it or aren't you?”

“I am, but I can't speak for Dot,” he said, casting his girl a questioning look. When she shrugged in a manner Paul interpreted as meaning she couldn't be bothered either way, “It's all yours, mate. Just try not to spew in our direction when you eat too much, alright?”

“As if that would ever happen. But the sounds you two are making might make me stomach turn," George mumbled around a mouthful of cold chips. "Yer being rather rude if you ask me.”

"Sorry mate, I've got six months worth of catching up to do. Plus, you invited yourself, remember? Give us a moment, yeah?”

All George could produce was a muffled sound which Paul interpreted as 'fine', but which just as easily could have meant something much less accommodating. “Very charming la', talking with yer mouth full like that. And you say I've got bad manners?” If he wasn't already laughing, George's vigorous nod certainly would have done the trick. With a dramatic sigh, Paul sat down on the wall and turned his attention back to Dorothy, who giggled quietly when he pulled her into his lap. “Now, where were we?”

Before he had the chance to lose himself in the kiss, however, Paul got distracted by a shadow being cast over their faces. Looking up, he discovered the one person he didn't want to see. Next to Lennon stood a rather short bloke with a sullen, freckled face. Remembering the chaplain's advice and hoping John would go away, he dryly said, “Oh, hello John. Happy new year.”

 

  
**-*-**

 

**John**

 

Happy new year? What was he playing at? John couldn't be sure, but he was convinced it wasn't as innocent as it sounded; not coming from that snivelling little wanker. Surely, McCartney must have been taking the piss. Or maybe he was trying to seem like a nice guy in front of the hangers-on he had with him. Either way, no way in hell was he going to believe even for a second that Paul would say that without some ulterior motive.

Raising himself to his full height, which wasn't exactly necessary since the other bloke was sitting down but it made him feel more powerful anyway, John took the bait. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, McCartney?”

“I don't know, Lennon," Paul drawled, smiling stupidly at the girl who had moved off his lap and now clung to his arm. "Perhaps it means happy new year? But if it offends you, I'll gladly take it back.”

From what John could see, Stu didn't yet understand why John hated McCartney so much. He sort of hung back with a bland expression on his face. Was that the reason for the feigned kindness? To make John look like a jerk in front of his best mate? “Oh, I get it. You're playing innocent, to make everyone else think yer not a complete gobshite. Nearly convinced me, son. Well played.”

“Suit yourself, I was only trying to be civil, you know.” Paul shrugged and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. After lighting one for himself, he offered one to his bony little friend and then smirked, “Want one, John? I just about got one left.”

“Fucking hypocrite." John spat, "drop the act, alright? Yer not foolin' me. And don't think I don't know you nicked those bifters from me. I know which brand you smoke, you fucking arse. You took those from my kit when you pulled that little prank, didn't you?” It all made perfect sense to him now.

“Rescued 'em, more like. No use lettin' a perfectly good pack of smokes get ruined now, is there?” He blew his smoke at John and grinned in a way that made him want to punch the git in the nose. “Don't get yer nappy in a twist, Lennon. I'll get you a new pack if it means that much to yer.”

“As if you'd be able to afford 'em,” John snorted. “You know, after bribing that bird into snogging yer ugly face. Not that she could've cost a lot. You can hardly call that talent, can you? I'd still shag her, mind you, though I'd turn the lights off first...”

Finally, he managed to penetrate that stupid facade, John thought as Paul got to his feet and slowly approached him. Gone was the mask of indifference. By now, John had seen enough of that face to recognise he'd hit a nerve and hit it gooed. The kid was seething, going by the way those girlish eyebrows got pulled down into a nearly straight line, much closer to the now nearly black eyes than they normally were. When McCartney spoke, his voice could've frozen the Sahara desert. “What did you just say, Lennon?”

“Ooh, aren't we touchy! What's the matter, Paulie? Don't have enough money to have her suck you off as well?” John cast an amused look at the girl, who appeared to be in a state of shock. Then again, he mused, a mousy little thing like that probably didn't need much to be put off her tea anyway. “Funny, she doesn't seem the expensive kind."

“That's my fiancée you're talking about, Lennon, and she's done nothing to justify you talking to her like that,” Paul hissed, his nose mere inches from John's. “You'll apologise to her right now, you fucking arsehole!”

More than a little surprised to find out McCartney was engaged, John glanced past his opponent to the girl who looked about ready to either cry, faint, or both. “Oh, alright then. I'll apologise, being the decent bloke that I am. I'm sorry yer engaged to this nancy, luv. Give me a ring if you ever want a real man, yeah?”

“I can see a few real men here, but yer not one of 'em, mate,” the lanky kid suddenly piped up. He'd been quietly observing the scene with a surly look on his face, and now he seemed keen on joining the fight. His appearance didn't impress John all that much. The kid didn't look a day over twelve, and he was so thin, John would've bet he hadn't had a proper meal in years. His hairstyle, a massive pompadour paired with what looked like a perfect DA, could easily compete with Little Richard's though, and that was saying something. John had to give him that.

“Stay out of it, George,” McCartney muttered as he placed a hand on the younger kid's shoulder. “Don't waste yer energy on him, he's not worth it, alright?” He proceeded to say something under his breath - John couldn't make out what - after which the kid nodded and positioned himself next to the distraught girl, still glowering at John and Stu.

“Yeah Georgie-porgie," John jeered, "shut up when the big boys are talkin'.”

In the blink of an eye, Paul's icy demeanour returned “Just sack it, Lennon. I've had it with you. If you want to have it out with me, do it tomorrow at the barracks. Otherwise, piss off and leave me and my friends alone.”

“And what if I don't, eh? What are you going to do then, Paulie? Run to yer mummy and cry in her lap because the big, bad bully has it in for you? Will you make her come over to my place to tell me to leave her precious little boy alone? You may want to think twice about that, you know. She might decide she likes me better than you.” As he spoke, John had adopted an increasingly demeaning tone of voice. Christ, he hated that bloke and everything about him.

“I warned you before,” Paul snapped, as pulled himself up to his full height, “not to talk about my mum like that. Now naff off, Lennon, and take your boyfriend with you.”

"Paul, don't. You're only making it worse, let's just go," the girl pleaded, though she spoke so quietly, they easily could have missed it.

“Yeah, leave me out of it,” Stu grumbled.

“Sorry mate, but I didn't hear you objecting when Johnny boy over here made a dig at my girl just then," McCartney said as he moved out of John's personal space and closer to Stu, whom he addressed in an almost condescending tone. "I've got nothing against you really, but you know what they say about sleeping with dogs..."

John wasn't sure what made him see red exactly: the not very subtle insult aimed at him or the fact that McCartney was now targeting his best mate, who hadn't said or done anything to get involved. Either way, something snapped and before he could stop himself, or rather before his inner voice of reason could interject, John grabbed the front of Paul's coat and forcefully shoved him into the wall of the church, where he used the advantage of his weight to keep him pinned down. “If you ever say something like that again, McCartney, you mightn't live to regret it.” To underline his words, he tightened his grip on Paul's lapels and gave him a rough shake so that the back of his head crashed harshly into the bricks. Satisfied that the message was clear, John let go and waited for McCartney's response. He didn't get one. At least not the kind he expected.

The moment he saw Paul's face take on a blank expression and his eyes lose focus, John knew he'd gone too far. Stunned by the effect of his own stupidity, John didn't protest when that lanky kid pushed him aside with surprising strength, just in time to catch McCartney before he hit the ground.

For several seconds, John just stared at his handiwork. There was no denying it: Paul was out for the count. He wouldn't have been lying there with his eyes closed if he wasn't, he was too proud for that, that much John was sure of. For the first time since he'd met the bloke, John felt a hint of guilt over his behaviour. Shouting at people was one thing, pushing and pulling was alright up to a point, and even the odd fist fight could usually be explained away. But knocking someone unconscious was something even the hard-headed John Lennon never thought he'd do.

Of course, he wasn't going to admit it to himself, or anyone else for that matter. And he definitely wasn't going to stick around for the aftermath, much less for an apology. After all, McCartney was as much to blame for this as he was. Wasn't he? Either way, there wasn't anything he could do now so whilst that blubbering berk fussed over McCartney and that George kid glowered threateningly at John, he concluded he'd seen enough and walked away, with Stuart in hot pursuit.


	7. Do You Want To Know A Secret?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you're in luck, I guess. Or not, depending on how you look at it. There's a heat wave going on over here, and the only thing I can get done without overheating is writing, so here's the next chapter, sooner than expected. Things are coming to a head. How will this end?

**2 January 1961**

 

**John**

 

Images from the previous day kept pushing themselves into John's mind, distracting him from what he was saying or doing on more than one occasion. Even his aunt had noticed and, as she was wont, berated him for his absentmindedness, bluntly reminding him it was precisely that behaviour that caused him to fail at school. If only she knew what he was thinking about but then again, John was relieved she didn't have a clue. He wouldn't have heard the end of it if she ever learnt what he'd done. Knowing Mimi, she wouldn't hesitate to have him arrested for it and somewhere deep down, though he tried to drown it out, a little voice told John he probably should be put behind bars, at least for a little while.

He hated feeling like this, hated that he just couldn't shake it all off and be done with it. John supposed it was guilt or something, but he couldn't be sure. After all, it wasn't an emotion he was too familiar with. One moment, he felt perfectly justified for teaching that wanker McCartney a lesson in humility, and the next moment there would be this voice again, telling him off. It sounded a hell of a lot like Stu, which it never had before, but it didn't particularly surprise John. After all, the tiny codger had been absolutely livid, a very rare occurrence for the lad that was usually so soft-spoken and placid.

“John, you can't do this. You can't just walk off like nothing happened; that bloke could be seriously hurt. He's not getting up, man. You need to go back and help.” Stu had yelled at him, had tried to force him to stop walking away by grabbing his arm. And John had not wanted to hear any of it, so he'd yanked himself free from Stuart's grip and brusquely stalked off. He hadn't walked ten yards before his conscience in the form of one Stuart Fergusson Victor Sutcliffe caught up with him. His best friend had treated him to a verbal beating which had been so incensed, it had actually impressed John. But eventually, he'd heard enough.

“Stay the hell out of it, Stu,” he had growled, his sense of self-righteousness returning to its normal level now that he could no longer see the results of his actions, and therefore quite easily trivialise their consequences. “You don't know the half of what that git has said and done. He's had it coming, but if you'd rather fuss over that milksop over there, go right ahead. He'll be fine; he's probably just faking it anyroad."

Stu'd stood agape at that for a full five seconds, staring at John as if he'd gone completely potty. "Are you daft? I can't believe you, John. Faked... And I suppose the blood wasn't real, either? You're better than this, John. Go back and make it right or I swear I'll report you myself."

"No, you won't," John shrugged, you'd never rat on yer best mate. There's nothing we can do anyway, and he's got his little band of twats with him, right? No need for us to be hanging around. Look, I'm going to get a pint. Are you coming or not?”

After a moment's hesitation, Stuart buried his hands in his pockets and followed John to the nearest pub, where they hadn't wasted any time getting blotto. Well, John hadn't, anyway. Stu seemed a lot soberer than he was anyway, and a lot less fun than usual too. The scowl on his face had spoken volumes, but he hadn't continued his rant. Probably, John mused, because he realised there was no talking sense into John Lennon when he was in one of his moods. But the afternoon had been more or less ruined, and with a final word of advice, Stu had soon excused himself and left, leaving behind his third pint, which he'd only half finished, for John to polish off. Which he had, followed by a fourth, and possibly a fifth, although things were a bit hazy from that point onwards. He remembered Mimi's disapproving scowl, though. If anything sobered a man up in the blink of an eye, it was that.

As he sat staring at the ever-changing landscape passing by outside of the window, John supposed he could try and find Paul. It shouldn't be too hard to do. He'd seen him on the platform, so he couldn't pretend to be unaware of the fact they were on the same train. The journey into Euston would take about four hours, and then they'd have to change trains into Aldershot, which would add another good hour to the trip. In short, there was ample opportunity to do what Stuart had urged him to do, and what Father McKenzie had told him to consider a fortnight before.

However, seeing McCartney up and about had also eased that part of John's conscience which had actually wondered if he'd inflicted any serious harm. Since he was obviously doing fine, John figured he didn't need to beat himself up too much over what happened. The thought pleased that part of him which told him Paul was as much to blame for all of this, what with his double entendres and underhanded tricks. Why should he, John, have to take the first step when he wasn't the only one keeping the row going?

So instead of doing what that annoying voice tried to convince him of, he stayed where he was and nourished that other feeling, that sense of justification. Because after all, if McCartney hadn't been such a prick, they would have got along just fine. If they were both to blame, then Paul definitely was the biggest instigator, and John was quite willing to accept that train of thought as the truth.

 

-*-

 

**Paul**

 

"Happy new year, and welcome to my humble abode. What will it be today, son? Five millimetres, or half a centimetre?"

Somehow, Private Starkey always managed to make Paul laugh; even now that his headache, which had bothered him ever since his run-in with John, was really starting to wear him out. He was a funny bloke, Paul reckoned, but despite having only briefly met him twice before, he'd sussed out there was more to the lad than just his quick wit and infectious smile. There was a kindness in those droopy, blue eyes and something about him just felt right. The fact that he was Scouse certainly earned him some bonus points. Despite the slight age difference, Paul could see himself befriending the man, and wondered if maybe he should drop by for a chat sometime. It was always good to have someone around with whom stories of home might be shared. Just seeing a friendly face made Paul feel better somehow.

"Just a bit off the sides thanks," Paul grinned as he plunked into the indicated chair.

"Don't you be smart with me you know," the fellow joked, as he swiftly handled the clippers, happily humming a vaguely familiar melody.

Paul listened for a moment, trying to figure out where he heard that song before. Whatever it was, it sounded quite cheerful. "That doesn't sound bad at all, Private. Which song is that?"

"The name's Richard, son, but I prefer Richie or Ringo. And it's 'Boys', off the new Shirelles single. Can't get it out of me head!"

"Oh yeah, catchy tune, that. I'm Paul, by the way." He sort of waved at the bloke standing behind him, since shaking hands wasn't really possible from that angle. "I keep forgetting I'm not a Recr-.... aah! Bloody hell!" He'd moved his head just a bit in a reflex to make eye contact, and he instantly regretted it when the sudden movement caused the clippers to catch on the cut he was left with after his little exchange of pleasantries with John.

"Christ, son, you scared me half to death. What are you whinging-... ooooh, that looks painful." Rather than continue to scold Paul for his little outburst and brief struggle with the barber's gown that kept him from instinctively bringing his hand to the aching area, Private Starkey - Richie - quickly put down the electric razor and addressed someone Paul couldn't see, "Oi, you with the head! Hand me one of those towels... Yeah, one of the clean ones. We've sprung a leak over here."

Paul would've chortled at the remark, but the meaning of it made him raise an eyebrow instead. "Wait, what? What are you talking about?"

"Yer bleeding, mate," Ringo explained, as he removed the gown and instructed Paul to keep the towel in place. "Come'ead, that'll need stitches."

"Rubbish, it hasn't bled since last night," Paul huffed. "It can't be that bad."

"Well, I'm sayin' it is. Now shut yet gob and come with me," Richard insisted.

"I know where the medical wing is, you know," Paul protested as he was more or less shepherded along the corridors by a man half a head shorter than him. He felt a bit silly, being pushed around like some witless kid.

Ringo let go of his arm and lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Just makin' sure you're gettin' there without leaving a trail on these lovely, freshly polished, mould-coloured floors. It'd be a drag for the sod who polished them to have to start over because you singlehandedly ruined his work," he chuckled, causing Paul to grin.

"What do you mean, mould? Looks more like vomit to me, you know?"

"Hmmm, maybe," the shorter man mused, "if you ate something green. Damn it, McCartney, now I won't be able to think of anything else looking at it."

"Sorry, mate..."

By then, they'd made it to the infirmary: a place Paul had been before and which he wasn't too happy about to be seeing again so soon. He didn't like it there one bit. Never had enjoyed hospitals, but after having spent several weeks there as a kid, his tolerance for them had significantly declined. After that traumatising visit to his mum, mere hours before she died, he'd vowed never to set foot in one of those places again if there was any way to avoid it. And yet, there he was, walking into that nasty smell of disinfectant again.

It was alright for the first few minutes when his new friend had escorted him into the small examination room he was told to go to and wait. Ringo had stuck around a bit, making Paul laugh with his witticisms and funny one-liners which weren't quite right but managed to get their meaning across anyway. Of course, there was that inevitable moment of being left alone. Several more Privates and other personnel were due back, so heads had to be shorn and all that, so Richie had no choice but to go. Nearly ten minutes had passed since he'd left, and Paul was beyond bored. He reckoned it was the dullest room he'd ever been in.

Just like basically everywhere else, the lower half of the walls was painted a sickly shade of green, albeit a few shades lighter than they'd used in most other areas, whilst the upper half appeared to have been white at some point. It could hardly be called that now, though, as cigarette smoke and sunlight had long since yellowed the paint. Apart from the furniture one would expect, and a few cupboards holding all sorts of medical stuff, the beige privacy curtain was the only form of decoration. There wasn't even a magazine or a newspaper to read, so Paul had resorted to watching the clock on the wall, lazily swinging his legs back and forth in time with the seconds as the passed, trying to turn the rhythm into a tune.

He got as far as 'one, two, three, four, can I have a little more, five, six, seven, eight...', but reckoned it was rubbish and resorted to drumming a rhythm on his thighs instead. At least when Richie - Paul hadn't quite decided which of the suggested names he preferred for the barber yet - was there, he'd had someone to share jokes with, which in turn distracted him from the throbbing pain in his head and the annoying queasiness he'd been feeling all day. Probably stress again, Paul reckoned, hoping he wouldn't get another one of those migraines. He'd just taken a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks, planning to see how slowly he could exhale when a doctor with a rather stern face finally appeared.

"Private... McCartney, what's the reason for your visit?"

"Well," Paul deadpanned, "Private Starkey says I've sprung a leak." Going by the smile that didn't come, the doctor wasn't in the mood for jokes, so he shrugged, "There's a cut on the back of my head."

"Alright, let's take a look at that." The older man rounded the exam table Paul was sat on and started his examination whilst asking questions with the kind of authoritarian air that instantly raised Paul's hackles. He didn't like to be bossed around and wondered why doctors were often so unfriendly when they were, after all, dealing with people who in most cases weren't feeling too great to begin with. "This wound should have been looked at sooner; it's showing signs of infection. How and when did you sustain this injury?"

"Slipped on some black ice and fell," Paul quickly said, reluctant to tell what actually happened. To add at least some truth to it, he added, "crashed right into a wall."

"I see. Have you experienced any loss of consciousness?"

"No." That was a blatant lie, and Paul knew it. The more he tried to remember the events of the previous afternoon, the hazier they got, but he was well aware of waking up on the ground, with a tearful Dot frantically fussing over him, and George looking uncharacteristically worried and as shirty as Paul had ever seen him. According to him, he'd been conked out for a few minutes, though Dot swore it was longer. Personally, Paul trusted George's assessment a lot more. Either way, he'd definitely lost consciousness but he was not going to say that and risk being put into one of those boring rooms again, where he'd have far too much time to think. Anything was better than that, Paul reckoned, as he shrugged. "I'm fine, nothing to worry about, you know. Just a headache, is all. I wouldn't mind something for that."

Paul soon discovered that admitting to something as mundane as a headache was a mistake because, after that statement, the doctor asked enough questions in that same, demanding voice to make it feel like more like an interrogation than a medical examination. Paul meekly answered them, some truthfully, some not quite as honestly, and some with outright lies, his mood plummeting further with each consecutive question. Apparently, he should have gone to A&E – which he already knew because George told him repeatedly. After a rigorous check-up, during which Paul did everything in his power to look and sound as healthy as possible though he had found it impossible to keep from flinching when that bloody bright light was shone into his eyes, he was diagnosed with a mild concussion. For some reason, that conclusion came with a stern talking-to about the risk he had taken by not seeking medical help sooner, and how much worse it could have been.

If Paul hadn't been in a rather bad mood by then, the actual treatment would've done the trick. Unpleasant was an understatement. The day before, once the world stopped spinning enough for Paul to get to his feet and walk without feeling like he'd fall over, they'd retreated to Dot's place where her mum had more or less cleaned the gash using water. That hadn't felt too bad at all, and since the cut had bled quite a bit, Paul hadn't stopped to think that it might have needed to be properly disinfected.

Apparently, it was worse than he'd thought and so, something more potent than water was used: something that smelt horrible and stung badly enough for Paul to shoot off a plethora of profanities which surely would've got him belted if his Da' had heard it. And then, there were the stitches which went in without any form of anaesthesia. When the whole ordeal ended with a tetanus shot, Paul's day was complete. Or, more concisely, completely ruined.

All in all, he felt miserable and very sorry for himself by the time he reached the dormitory after a quick detour to get the rest of his hair cut so he didn't look like half a hedgehog anymore. Everyone else was either eating their dinner or still en route to Aldershot, so the place was deserted which suited Paul just fine. Not the least bit hungry, he tossed his belongings on his footlocker and crash-landed on his bed. Someone had moved his duffel bag to the dorm, but he'd still have to unpack it. Since he'd been ordered to take it easy for a while, Paul decided to leave it for later, knowing the Badge wouldn't bother him about it this time 'round.

Unable to get comfortable, Paul rolled from his side to his back, and over to his other side, never really settling down. He hated being back, especially now that he was feeling so grotty. After doctor 'Bedside-Manner-Never-Heard-Of-It', or Captain Reynolds, or whatever his name was, had been done torturing Paul, one of the much friendlier nurses had taken over, and he'd been so kind as to give Paul something for his headache. Though it didn't settle his stomach, he did feel more or less alright physically now that the medication kicked in, if not somewhat light-headed. But the list of symptoms he might develop actually scared him a little.

Not knowing if, when, and how badly those symptoms would hit him - or if downplaying his symptoms meant he could expect things to be even worse than predicted - didn't sit right with Paul at all. It was exactly the kind of helplessness he hated the most. A chill crept up his spine, but his self-pity kept him from putting on a jumper or covering himself up. Instead, he simply crossed his arms tightly across his chest, pulled up his knees, and sulked. It was only the first day back, and he missed Liverpool already.

 

-*-

 

**John**

 

For the past five minutes or so, he had been listlessly poking at his food, pushing it about the plate, but never taking more than a few small bites. His stomach was rumbling, but John's appetite was nonexistent. Ever since he walked into the barber's, putting him in the same room with Paul, although it was obvious he hadn't seen or heard him come in, he'd felt uneasy. Ignoring reality and pushing away the memory of his outburst had been doable when he didn't actually see the results of his assault. When he approached to hand the barber, who'd later introduced himself as Ringo, that towel he asked for, John got a good view of the damage he'd done. That gash looked nasty, and it would definitely leave a scar. Getting a first-row view of the consequences of his actions had not just put John off his tea, it also triggered some unwelcome emotions and recollections.

He felt bad about losing his temper so spectacularly, but somehow still not guilty enough to apologise. Then again, the word 'sorry', though present, was buried very deeply in John's vocabulary and only very rarely used. Mainly because he rarely felt he'd acted badly enough to warrant an apology. He supposed this situation might qualify but he wasn't ready for a full admission of guilt yet, so he'd kept out of sight. Perhaps Stu had been right when he called John a cowardice bully. But then again, who had been the one making comments about boyfriends and dogs? Not John, that's who. And even if he'd been in the wrong this time, that still didn't negate the fact that McCartney was an annoying, arrogant arse.

The bloody wanker ought to be thanking John for dragging his luggage all the way to the dorm because he certainly hadn't been under any obligation to do that. Well. Except for being ordered to, but he easily could've made someone else do it. So, maybe he'd already vindicated himself enough. Too bad his conscience didn't seem satisfied with that conclusion. At least, not enough to restore his appetite. Breathing a heavy sigh, John stood up and cleared away his tray and decided to turn to his books for comfort; perhaps going down the rabbit hole for a few chapters would clear his mind and make him forget about recent events.

As he entered the dormitory, he instantly knew he was out of luck. About halfway down the room, on the bed next to his, lay the one person John did not want to see. He had his back turned; John could have easily stepped out without being noticed. But it was as if he was pulled in, and he found himself quietly drawing nearer. It soon became clear McCartney was asleep, completely dead to the world. He looked a right mess, too, with some traces of dried blood stuck in what little hair he - or any of the lads in their group - was left with, and all pale like. Definitely didn't fit the Pretty Boy moniker looking like that, John mused. Atop his foot locker, half hidden by a beret sat a small, brown glass container which piqued John's curiosity. Careful to not make a sound, he picked it up and read the label:

Pte. J.P. McCartney – Penicillin – Take as directed.

John remembered having to take penicillin once. He'd challenged the boy-next-door to jump from the roof of one shed to the next, which stood on either side of a 3-foot-wide ginnel. Ivan had cleared it with ease, but somehow John had miscalculated his jump – possibly because he wasn't wearing his glasses – and missed the ledge by a few inches, causing him to take a seven-foot-tumble. The journey down hadn't been so bad; it was the impact with the unforgiving tiles below that made it rather something he hadn't felt like repeating. Mimi had been completely beside herself, possibly more because he'd ruined a new jumper than the fact that he'd bloodied up his elbow. In the end, it got infected and he'd been prescribed antibiotics, which made him feel more miserable than the busted arm had.

He put the bottle back where he got it from, deciding that whatever he was going to say to McCartney, be it an apology or something that would provoke another row, it could wait for now. John retreated to the five metres2 which he liked to refer to as his quarter, and opened his book. If anyone could make him feel better, it'd be Alice.

 

-*-

 

**3 January 1961**

 

**Father McKenzie**

  
"Good morning, George. What can I do for you?" The chaplain closed the door of the Warrant Officer's office behind him and took a seat. Across him sat Sergeant Major Martin, whom he'd known from when he was a fresh-faced Recruit, well over a decade ago, and considered a good friend. A friend who looked rather conflicted on this cold, windy day. It was obvious he hadn't been called in for a social call.

"We've got a problem, Patrick." Just the seemingly harmless fact that he'd been called by his Christian name rather than any of the formal titles associated with the job was an indication of the kind of problem they were dealing with: it was going to be something difficult. "Yesterday, Private McCartney was made to report to me by the chief medical officer. He was treated for a head injury and was diagnosed with a concussion. According to him, he slipped on some ice, which I initially accepted as the truth."

He sighed and rummaged through some papers until he pulled out a scribbled note. "But then, we received a telephone call from a civilian this morning, reporting an incident which took place in Liverpool, on New Year's Day. Apparently, Private Lennon got in a row and assaulted someone. According to the caller, who wanted to remain anonymous, the victim was rendered unconscious during the attack. He also stated it was one of our boys, but the lad couldn't remember a name other than, and I quote, 'something Scottish; Mac-something-or-other'. I assume you understand what this means?"

"I'm afraid I do," the preacher nodded, his mind going a mile a minute. He'd hoped those lads had come closer to resolving their issues since he last spoke to them. Apparently, they hadn't. "I know them both, and although I can't tell you what they discussed with me, I think it's safe to say neither likes the other very much."

"Yes, that is common knowledge. But I never expected it to reach this point. What can be done, though?" The Sergeant Major rubbed his eyes wearily. "We can't court-martial Lennon for what he does in his free time, especially if McCartney refuses to be honest about what happened. The anonymous caller provided us with details which directly contradict what McCartney told Captain Reynolds, so I have little hope of him giving us the insight we need. However, I think you'll agree we can't condone it either. This feud has to be settled, and fast."

"You're right, I do agree," the chaplain nodded. "I've spoken to them separately, which hasn't helped much. I think we should get them in a room together and make them talk it out. I realise ordering them to open up isn't the best way to handle these kinds of feuds, but this isn't an ordinary battle of wills. Would you like me to mediate? I could see them today if you want, assuming you want this resolved sooner rather than later."

"I do indeed. I'll pull them aside after roll call and send them right over to you. They're supposed to spend the morning on the assault course, but I rather not provide them with the perfect environment to escalate things even further. Especially when one of them is supposed to be taking it easy, which for some reason he refused." Leaning back in his desk chair, George slowly shook his head, frowning at the transcript from that telephone call.

"I wonder what else has happened that we don't even know about. I guess we'll never know, not with McCartney marginalising the severity of his symptoms. To save face, I guess. I've met some stubborn eighteen-year-olds before, but none quite as hard-boiled as he. Keep an eye on him when you sit them down, Padre. Based on what I've seen and heard, I can't escape the feeling that young man should be in a hospital bed, even if he doesn't seem to think so. We can't afford to be negligent of our men's health, even if they themselves are."

"Of course. In fact, I'll watch them both closely. I've come to know them both as exceptionally strong-willed, though they're both kind and generous people. McCartney may be a natural charmer and more likeable at first glance, Lennon isn't a bad egg, no matter how much he tries to come across as one. He seems to be a lot more vulnerable than McCartney from what I can tell, and treating him too harshly won't do any good whatsoever. We shouldn't make the mistake of favouring one over the other, or painting either man with too broad a brush; it would do more harm than good." He got up and headed towards the door, saying "I'll assume they'll arrive within the hour?"

"They will. Thanks, Patrick."

"Don't mention it, George."

It didn't even take an hour for the boys to report to the chapel, wearing identical scowls. The tea and biscuits Father McKenzie had hoped to deploy as a way to defuse the situation hadn't even arrived yet, but he soon decided to get to work immediately rather than wait for the snacks. If things went as he hoped they would, they could always have a good, constructive conversation once the tea did arrive.

However, just looking at the quarrelsome pair made him feel a lot less certain of a favourable outcome. Both lads displayed the exact same body language: arms crossed, jaws set, eyes staring coldly at a point straight ahead. They'd dug in their heels and weren't going to cooperate willingly. He'd dealt with fights before in his many years working as a chaplain, but rarely one of this magnitude. He'd usually be able to mediate long before physical violence came into play. But now that bridge had been crossed, and he'd have to deal with the status quo as it was presented to him.

Despite all his eyes had witnessed in the sixty-four years since he'd been born, he still had faith in humanity and people's ability to find a common ground. Not even serving in two world wars - the first as a very young Private, pulled out of seminary to serve his country, and the second in his current profession which had been decidedly more traumatising than fighting at the frontlines - had robbed him of that faith in mankind. He wasn't about to abandon that mindset now. He wasn't going to give up on two lads he both knew to have good hearts. They might learn to see eye to eye yet, given that indifference hadn't set in yet. As long as they hated each other this much, there was still room for hope.

"John, it has been brought to our attention that you assaulted Paul on New Year's." As much as he hated to do it, Patrick decided the only way to get the boys' undivided attention was to cut straight to the core. Instantly, John's head snapped to the right, where Paul, whose eyebrows had flown up his forehead, was sat. "Before you start, we didn't hear it from him. We received a telephone call from an eye witness if you must know. Now, I don't think I need to remind you that this is a very serious offence and one that would get you court-martialed if you had done this whilst on duty. It still might land you in jail if Paul decides to report to the police. Whether he does that or not, your military career is in jeopardy and you'll need to cooperate in order to salvage it. Do you understand?"

John opened his mouth, then apparently thought better of it and shut it again. He nodded. It was an angry, defensive gesture, but it was there nonetheless.

"Very well. Paul, I don't think I have to remind you that lying to not one, but two superior officers is equally damaging to your reputation and that you are far from absolved. Even if you yourself are the sole victim of your deceit, it's a punishable offence nonetheless. Your Warrant Officer has consulted me, and we've decided to offer the both of you the chance to work through your differences rather than resort to disciplinary action as a first resort. I will help you do that, but I need you to commit yourselves. Will you do that?"

Paul nodded first, followed by John after a slight hesitation. “Good. Now, first things first. John, why did you assault Paul?”

“He insulted me, in that cagey way of his," the lad blurted out. "You know, implying stuff, saying things without actually saying them. Suggesting I'm queer, that sort of crap. You don't do that, it's a terrible thing to say.”

Instantly, Paul retorted, his otherwise so warm and soothing voice reduced to a nasty snarl. “It was just a joke, Lennon! I don't see why you need to be so touchy about it unless you've got something to hide, you know. Besides, you said far worse things about my fiancée: you called her a cheap prossie, for fuck's sake!” The news of such a young boy being engaged surprised the preacher very much, but he willed himself to shake his bemusement off and focus on refereeing the discussion.

“Paul, I understand you are upset, but try to let John finish his side of the story. You'll get your turn in a minute." That didn't sit well with the younger boy, whose scowl instantly deepened. He clearly didn't understand why he was being forced to calm down, but then the obviously couldn't see just how terribly pale he looked. It was plain to see he wasn't feeling well and perhaps he shouldn't be participating in the discussion at all, but that ship had sailed. The next best thing was to keep him as inactive as possible, however impossible that would probably turn out to be. "Try to understand that everyone yelling at once isn't going to solve anything. You won't be ignored, neither of you will. Please, just listen for a moment and try to really hear what's being said. That goes for both of you. Don't just hear the words, understand their meaning. John, continue.”

“Like I said, he implied stuff about me. You don't say stuff like that, you just don't. But he's right," John added defiantly, "I did mock the bird he was with.”

“And what made you do that?”

"I don't know," John shrugged, though his expression said something else. Not a second later, he burst out, “I already got a cob on, didn't I? What with that childish prank he pulled.”

“Which was...?”

In an almost comical way, John huffed, “He left a full tube of toothpaste in my kit... without the tube, mind!”

The pout on Paul's face faded into a half-smile. “Don't forget to mention the shaving cream, John. If yer gonna acknowledge my efforts, you better mention all of it.”

Father McKenzie had to force back a chortle but managed to compose himself before either boy could notice he'd been amused. “So you don't deny it, then?”

“Why would I? Best gag I pulled in years.”

John lashed out, “Well, you don't see me laughing! It was everywhere! Mimi had to wash everything twice. And the smell.... like a fucking soap factory blew up in there!”

Suddenly, Paul was biting down hard on his bottom lip, whilst the corners of his mouth twitched suspiciously. There was an infectious twinkle in his eye, and the previous hint of a smile quickly morphed into a broad grin before the boy started to giggle. He raised his hands to either side of his face and made an exploding gesture, whilst making a 'poof!' sound. Tears now streaming down his face, Paul buried his face in his hands and doubled over, howling with laughter.

The chaplain honestly tried to keep a straight face, but the mental image of a factory exploding in a ball of suds rather than flames was too strong. Before long, he, too, was laughing out loud whilst John still scowled, seemed ready to punch someone in the face. Then, his lips slowly started to curl upwards. It was obvious he hated himself for it, but within seconds, he too was gasping for air, tears streaming down his face as he joined the chorus of laughter that filled the room.

Eventually, the cries of laughter subsided into giggles, and eventually sniffles before they all managed to take a deep breath and calm down. As eyes were wiped dry and only a few residual chuckles bore evidence of the hysterics the three men just shared, Father McKenzie felt confident he just witnessed a breakthrough. Sure, it had come at a price for some, he noted, failing to miss the way Paul squeezed his eyes shut and held his head for a few ticks, but all in all, having them laughing this early on in the conversation was a good sign.

“See? We managed to agree that whilst it may not have been a very mature thing to do, it was a good practical joke. That's progress, lads, that's very positive indeed. Now, can't we use that as a starting point move forward from here and see what else we can agree about?”

Unfortunately, the tension instantly returned when a single word was spoken. “No.”

“John?" Faster than the mood had lifted, it plummeted lower than before, with Paul pretty much disappearing into himself, his eyes showing no emotion whatsoever anymore, and John looking frighteningly angry. "Come on, son, please be reasonable now.”

If looks could kill.... “How am I being unreasonable? Maybe that was a good joke, and perhaps it didn't do any harm, but it came out of nowhere. I didn't provoke it, I hadn't bothered him in days and just like that, he goes and comes at me with a sneaky thing like that rather than confronting me face to face, like the coward he is. He had no reason to do it, no reason at all.”

“So you repay me by bashing my head into a fucking wall," Paul yelled. The wince that followed the shout was subtle but noticeable, and he lowered his voice considerably when he continued, "In what world is that even normal?”

"Paul has a strong argument there, John," the chaplain reasoned whilst keeping a wary eye on the younger boy, who seemed to be trembling a bit. Hopefully, it was merely out of anger, and not a sign of anything serious. "He shouldn't have done what he did, but you have to agree that a harmless joke and a random insult, however inappropriate, don't justify the kind of violence you used."

“Alright, fair enough. I shouldn't have done that," John admitted though he didn't sound particularly remorseful. "But it's not like any serious harm was done.”

In response, Paul gestured wildly, visibly frustrated. “The stitches in my head say otherwise, John. They put me on antibiotics for crying out loud! And what if I had been seriously hurt? What if I am?"

“But you aren't, are you? Drop the sanctimonious act, Paul." Now it was John's turn to gesticulate and point fingers. "You want people to think it's all me, that I'm the bully and that yer just a nice bloke who's so bloody innocent, but you and I know that's a fucking lie, don't we? You've done plenty yerself. You nicked a pack of fags, and I still can't find my knife.”

“And I'm telling you for the sixth time," Paul responded in the same irate tone, making him sound almost exactly like John, "I don't have it. Never did.”

“Fine, suit yerself. Keep lying, see if I give a fuck. It'll turn up soon enough, see if you'll be able to deny it then." He shrugged, spewing out the next accusation before anyone could interject. "I suppose yer going to pretend that it wasn't you who put fire ants in my boots either, right? Those things bite, you cunt.”

“What? You must be joking. You put pepper in my pillowcase. My eyes were sore for days! Did you stop to think that something like that can turn people blind?" Paul paused long enough for John's expression to betray that he hadn't actually thought of the risk involved in that kind of prank. "Yeah, I didn't think so. And who started it, anyway? What kind of a sick fuck puts a bunch of spiders in someone's bed - much less when they're sleeping in it?”

Father McKenzie didn't know what he was hearing. He had an inkling these boys knew how to argue, but he hadn't expected either of them to resort to the kind of retaliations they were mentioning. The argument was heating up fast, and he didn't quite know what to do. Ready to intervene if things got completely out of hand, he decided to let them just get it all off their chests, hoping it would clear the air enough to start talking instead of shouting. His biggest worry at that point was still Paul, who still looked like he might fall over any moment, but who matched John blow for blow, probably due to a massive adrenaline rush. He could only hope all this shouting wasn't going to make things worse for him, though he appeared to be too wound up to even notice any discomfort. In the meantime, John was already crying out again.

“As if you hadn't had your revenge for that already. Remind me: how many times have you made a mess of my locker?”

A short bark of a laugh, completely devoid of any joy or kindness, made Father McKenzie cringe. “Well, if you weren't so uptight about keeping everything perfectly tidy, it wouldn't have been fun enough to repeat, would it?”

“It was unprovoked!” The pitch of John's voice went up about an octave, he really seemed to think he hadn't done anything wrong.

“Hardly," Paul snorted, coming back at John so fast it was as if he'd already known what the next step was going to be. "Remember gun maintenance? When you sabotaged my rifle? That wasn't funny, John, and it wasn't even payback for anything because I hadn't done anything. You just wanted to fuck with me. But your plan to make yourself look better by humiliating me in front of everyone didn't work out so well, didn't it?”

“So you retaliate by upheaving my footlocker and hiding my glasses, very mature.” Well, he had a point. It was a very childish thing to do, the chaplain thought.

“I don't see why you'd care so much. You never wear 'em anyway.”

“That's not the point, you gobshite! Oh, and what about that time you kneed me? Did you forget about that?”

Now that was something the preacher didn't expect. Out of the two, he'd estimated Paul to be the one least likely to use violence, but apparently, he had. And by the way the lads were now standing a few inches apart, he feared he'd have to jump in and separate them before long. The air seemed to be charged with electric energy, the tension was nearly palpable. And they weren't through just yet.

“How many times have you kicked or punched me, John? I've been covered in bruises since the day I got here and you're to blame for most of those so don't be playin' the innocent victim here!” By the time he finished, Paul's voice had got so quiet and low, it was actually more impressive than all the screaming that had gone on right before. He was clearly getting the upper hand, but whether that was a good thing? John seemed to be aware of it, and his body language showed signs of him not being very accepting of his impending defeat.

“So you kick a bloke in the balls? That seems a bit harsh, mate! And what about my nose, hey? You fucking broke my nose!”

Paul rolled his eyes at John. “What's the matter, John, run out of things I've actually done? I didn't break your nose and you know it. Only one of us broke something, and that was me, thanks to you. Or did you forget about my foot? And so what if I punched you? You had it coming after the stuff you said about my mum.”

“Yer in the army now, son," John jeered, poking a finger at Paul's chest. He couldn't see what Father McKenzie saw: Paul's expression wasn't angry anymore, it was hurt. Had he seen it, he mightn't have continued. Then again, there was no possible way for John to not have noticed that Paul wasn't looking too well, and that hadn't stopped him, either. "It's high time to grow some bollocks if you want to make it through. Yer gonna be dealing with a lot worse than a few harmless jokes about yer mum. Everybody does that, and nobody gives a shit, I don't see why you feel the need to be so fucking precious about yours.”

“Because she's dead, you bleedin' idiot! My mum's dead, alright?”

While the words still seemed to ricochet off the walls, Paul turned around and stormed out, slamming the door behind him so violently, the glass panes rattled in their grooves. He almost made enough noise to drown out the strangled sob which escaped his throat just before his exit.

Almost.


	8. We Can Work It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, second update in less than 24 hours! I'll try to keep them coming, if you try to keep letting me know what you think!

**John**

 

"Did he just... Was he... What... Should I...? Fuck..." John felt bewildered. Paul's confession had somehow managed to knock the wind right out of him. Of all the answers his rhetorical question could have got, this was the last one John expected to hear. His anger disappeared as fast as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, and what he was left with was confusion. Thoughts and words tumbled all over each other, rendering him mute and not quite able to grasp what just happened. Something inside him told him to go after Paul, though he didn't really know what for or what it might accomplish, and yet he was already starting to move in that direction when a hand on his shoulder pulled him back into reality.

"Don't," Father McKenzie muttered, slowly shaking his head. "Think about it for a moment, John. Have you learnt anything about Paul's character over the past months? Anything at all?"

"You knew this?"

"I did," the old man said, "but that isn't relevant. Please try to answer my question if you can."

John sank down on the nearest pew and tried to organise his thoughts. Was there anything in particular he had picked up, other than the negative traits that were so easy to spot? At first, all he could think of were the reasons he hated McCartney so much. He hadn't really paid much attention to anything else, after all. But then, different images started to creep up on him, little details he must have picked up without meaning to.

Memories of Paul taping up his foot so he could go on a long march despite having a broken toe. All it had taken to achieve that was to 'accidentally' lose his grip on the massive log they'd been carrying. Just a split-second decision on his part, which must've caused a lot of pain for weeks if not months, but Paul never once complained, as far as he knew. John had noticed him wincing a few times, but McCartney had always steeled himself when he knew he was being watched. And then there was that time the Badge had to order him to see the doctor because he pretended to be fine even when anyone could see he was ill.

And how could he forget that incident with the pepper, when that idiot had come back from the bathroom dripping wet from the shoulders up, which suggested he rinsed his eyes, which were red and swollen, by sticking his head under the tap. He hadn't said a word, tossed the offending pillow aside, and proceeded to sleep without one, using his arms to support his head instead. He couldn't have slept much that night, yet nobody ever noticed anything out of the ordinary, apart from some redness and a lot of blinking.

The more he thought about it, the more instances he could recall when Paul had simply smiled away whatever he felt. Well, either that, or he had become aggressive, but that only happened two or three times anyway. For months, John had secretly wondered what the pretence was for, why McCartney didn't just admit to being hurt, or sick, or knackered like any normal person would. Even now, he mused, he was probably nursing the mother of all headaches, yet he hadn't shown the slightest sign of discomfort. At least, John hadn't seen any, though he sure as hell had noticed he looked even worse than the previous evening. And then it dawned on him.

"Back when we first got here, I started keeping score," John said slowly, trying to follow where his thoughts took him. He met the chaplain's gaze for a moment, who nodded at him to continue. "Just in my head, right, tallying up when I managed to pull one on him. I wanted to break him, it was a contest to see which one of us would make the other bow to their will. I thought it'd be easy, a bloke like that, with that face, I reckoned it'd be fun. Never thought he'd turn out to be a match for me, and he wasn't. If I'm honest, I lost the game because it's me who isn't a match for him. That's why I stopped keeping score, but it also made me hate him even more. How could someone like me lose to a bloke like that? I guess I lost because I underestimated him and failed to see he never wanted to win; he merely didn't want to lose. At least, not to me."

"That sounds very on point, John," the preacher agreed. "Can you figure out what else makes Paul behave the way he does?"

"He wants to be taken seriously. People... I... think he's a soft lad because of how he looks, and because he doesn't want to be here, and he wants to prove them... me... wrong. By being tougher than anyone else, he's showing the people who doubt him that he's perfectly good at doing all this stuff, which he actually is, but that he simply doesn't want to do any of it. He's a Scouser so he's probably been taught not to get emotional and shite, right. We've got songs about that stuff and everything, basically telling you to laugh when yer sad. I can see how someone like that might take it to the next level and not show any emotion at all unless it's happiness. He clearly doesn't like to show weakness, so he'll just hide behind a smile and carry on." John finally concluded.

The chaplain nodded. "That's just a small part of it, but yes, I'd call that an accurate analysis for now. I also think his reluctance to show weakness, as you call it, stems from a desire to keep things private. We all have parts of ourselves that we don't necessarily want everyone else to see. I do, and I know you do too. So, let's respect that and give him a chance to be by himself for a while. Would you want him to see you when you're crying?"

The thing John hadn't felt comfortable mentioning, but which wouldn't leave his mind, had finally been said aloud. He achieved what he set out to do on the day he first met Paul: he had broken him, and made him cry. For the better part of a half year, it had been John's main goal and now it seemed John had won, something he hadn't really expected anymore. In truth, he kept the whole thing going because he refused to be the one to back down, and so was Paul. It would seem he'd got his wish at last but why, then, didn't he feel pleased? Somehow, he had expected his victory to be... Well, more victorious.

Deep down, he knew why: he hadn't proven McCartney to be too soft for the army. In fact, the lad had shown himself to be extremely resilient. There had been countless incidents which he could have reported and which would've got John kicked out of the army at best, and into jail at worst, yet he'd never said a thing to anyone as far as John could tell. That was a show of character, even if John was loath to admit it. So, all of this had nothing to do with weakness. No, the cause for his breakdown was something deeply personal, and John knew exactly how he felt. He knew that pain, and it wasn't anything to ridicule. So, he couldn't count it as a win, because it felt like he lost. They both had.

Pulling himself out of his seriously derailed train of thought, John managed to remember the question that still lingered in the air. "No, I don't think I'd want anyone to see me crying, least of all him... normally. But this is different."

"How is it different, John? Why should Paul let go of his pride now, and reveal his feelings to the one person most likely to mock him for having them? To reformulate one of your own questions: what makes you so special?" The question was harsh, accusatory almost, but the old preacher wasn't wrong, John knew.

"Because I know what he's going through," he muttered at his hands. "Last month, you said I might find I had things in common with Paul if only we would talk. Well, you were right, weren't you? We do have something in common: my mum's dead as well."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, John. I did not know that; you never mentioned it when we spoke." For some reason, the comforting hand that landed on his shoulder made John choke up. The warmth in the chaplain's voice only made it worse. Being yelled at was a hell of a lot easier to handle than getting sympathy.

"Yeah, well... Why would I? It's not like you can bring her back, can you?" John blinked back some tears he felt burning behind his eyes and straightened himself up, decidedly pushing away the pain. Just like Paul would, he grimly thought. "Besides, people don't know what it's like, do they?"

"No, most people don't, thankfully. But now you know Paul does. Does that change anything?"

John considered the question for a moment. He didn't suppose it mattered all that much. Not in the grand scheme of things, anyway. The differences between him and McCartney were still there. As far as he was concerned, the younger lad was still a wanker. The only thing that really changed was knowing they shared the harrowing experience of losing a parent when they were still kids.

"I don't think it changes much, no. I mean, I suppose this is something we could talk about if we wanted to, you know. I don't think we have to keep fighting and all that shite, I've been over that for a while, really, and I don't want to risk losing my future in the army because of some bloke I dislike. But I can't really see us being friends or anything. He's still the same arrogant, spoilt knob he was ten minutes ago, isn't he?"

The chaplain, who'd briefly walked away to accept the rather tardy tea tray which was a bit redundant now, sat down next to John and sighed. "Is he, really? You just discovered you were wrong about at least one thing; is it possible other aspects of your image of Paul are biased as well? If you take a step back and try to take an objective stance, does he still fit into that box you put him in? Because I've had a few in-depth conversations with Paul over the past two months, and I don't see him the way you do, John. He doesn't fit that description, nor do you for that matter. Tea?"

"Might as well, ta'," John nodded. He didn't appear to be going anywhere anyway and all that screaming and talking about emotions had made him thirsty. "So, what would you say he's like then? Since you seem to know him so well."

"I could tell you how I see Paul, but I think you need to get to know him yourself and make up your own mind. Likewise, he needs to adjust his image of you, because that's very far removed from reality as well. Have a sit-down and talk to him. Get to know each other, find out what else you have in common. I'm always here to help if you need a mediator or someone to talk to. But whatever you do, stop this nonsensical feud. It's petty, it's destructive, and it won't bring you anything positive. You called this a contest but it has no winners, John, because hate can only breed more hate, and that's a very destructive emotion which only makes you lose who you really are. Do you want to be victorious? Then get over your preconceived notions of Paul and get to know him for who he really is. You never know; you may end up liking him. Most people here do, you know. Do you think they would if he really was as horrible as you say he is?"

"It's not just me, you know," John shrugged, not entirely convinced. The whole thing sounded just a little too idyllic to him; as if overcoming something as massive as that was simply a matter of having a chat. "There're two people in this fight, and we're both keeping it going. What makes you think he'll want to talk to me?"

"Well, if he doesn't, you can still end the argument. If Paul says or does anything to provoke you, ignore it. If you feel you're getting angry, or if you think he's going to blow up, walk away. Seriously: physically get up and leave until you're ready to give it another try. Repay him with kindness instead of adding fuel to the fire. If you don't give him ammunition, he'll have no choice but to stop shooting at you. It takes two people to fight, but only one to stop. But somehow, I don't think you'll need to worry about it. I'm certain Paul will be more than happy to let it be. And if I'm wrong," he quipped, handing John his tea and allowing him to help himself to the biscuit tin, "I'll have Chef Epstein make you a large batch of these chocolate biscuits you like so much. Deal?"

John was glad the gloomy atmosphere was broken by the lighthearted comment. "But what if you're right, eh? What if we do patch things up, what's in it for me then?"

"You drive a hard bargain, Private Lennon," the chaplain grinned. "Let's see. If I am right, then your reward will be gaining a friend. And to celebrate that, you'll both get biscuits. Fair enough?"

"I could live with that, I suppose."

"Good. Now, I think we've discussed the matter enough." Father McKenzie stood up and gave John an encouraging pat on the back. "I have work to do, I'm afraid, but you can stay as long as you like. Drink your tea, make sure you've properly calmed down before you leave. Then, and only then, I want you to go find Paul, and talk to him. Calmly. Like adults. Put an end to this rivalry; you'll both be glad you did."

John wasn't entirely convinced it'd be that easy, but a few minutes later, he got up and sauntered out anyway. The only problem was: how was he going to talk to McCartney if he didn't know where he was? John could see hide nor hair of him, and there was an endless number of places he could have gone. He obviously had found himself a damn good hiding place some time ago, given the fact that he'd done a disappearing act several times over the previous months. John had casually asked around, starting with Paul's friends, but either nobody knew where he'd wandered off to, or they simply refused to tell him. Knowing that some people knew something he didn't was frustrating, but now it was a bit more important to get answers. Realising deep down he wouldn't have any luck there, John decided to start by checking the dormitory. If he'd been ill, he would've wanted to crawl into bed, so perhaps that's what McCartney had done. If not, he'd simply have to come up with a different plan.

Five minutes later, he crashed on his bed, letting out a heartfelt curse or two. Or three. Or... Well. Things had really gone tits up now, and the worst part of it was: it was all his own doing. Sure, there had been two people actively participating in the warfare, but now that he was starting to see his nemesis in a slightly different light, John could no longer deny is had been mostly him. He'd started it all, and he'd done the worst things. By a mile. He'd been proud of that at first and the bastard in him still was. Probably always would be.

But there was that other side of him, the side he tried so hard to hide from everyone including himself, that was really starting to nag. There were instances he'd made himself blind to or things he'd consciously twisted into something negative when in reality, they were probably McCartney's feeble attempts at ending the battle. Maybe he had meant it when he said 'happy new year', maybe that was a way of saying 'hey, let's start over' or something. John didn't know what to think anymore. He'd fucked up, that much he did definitely know. Not just by assaulting someone who hadn't really done anything - even when things got physical, Paul hadn't even touched him, even though he was more than capable of kicking John's arse - and jeopardising his own future career in the process, but also by saying and doing things he wouldn't have if he'd known the truth.

Because he wouldn't have. John knew himself to be a bastard, but he wasn't that coldhearted. Even he had respect for some things. John didn't even like mum jokes and hated it when people used those on him, what with Julia dying and all. He had only continued to use them on Paul because he misunderstood his reasons for being so touchy about them. How could he have mistaken the grief he knew so well for the indignation of a mummy's boy?

He should've known better and ultimately, John supposed that's what made him want to try and resolve this shitty situation. It would be nice to at least be on speaking terms with someone who knew exactly what he'd been through. Even if that person was still a condescending little twit, an arrogant know-it-all, a spoilt cunt, a lying, underhanded bastard, and all those other labels John had picked out for McCartney. Were those even valid anymore? If he was going to continue hating McCartney, he reckoned it'd be better if it was for reasons that weren't just in his head. The only way to find out if there was anything he could objectively despise was to have that talk. At the very least, he'd apologise for the mum stuff since he really felt bad about that.

As John soon found out, he could feel even worse. When he got up, planning to go and find Paul before he lost his nerve, his eye fell on something he didn't notice before. Atop his foot locker lay a knife – his knife, the one he had been accusing Paul of nicking for the past month or so, and a note.

'John, - Found your knife in my kit. Must've forgotten to give it back when you lent it to me. Sorry mate. - Cheers, Neil'

John groaned audibly. How long had it been since he last blamed McCartney for the missing knife? Not just that, but rather pointedly called him a liar and a thief? Couldn't be more than an hour, and there it was. One more thing he ended up being wrong about; he hoped it would become habitual. He put the recently recovered item in his pocket and grabbed his duffle coat. He was going to find Paul and have a discussion with him, whether the little tosser liked it or not.

 

-*-

 

**Paul**

 

He could just kick himself for losing it back there. Of all the people in the world who could see him break down, it had to be John Lennon. For months, he'd forced himself to never show even the slightest hint of pain, fatigue, or grief. There were people, albeit very few, who were allowed to see the real Paul, but Lennon wasn't one of them. Appearing unyielding and unfeeling to that jerk had been a goal in and of itself and in a way, it had given him something to focus on to get through the day. All of that effort was now wasted. He'd failed miserably by allowing himself to get that upset. Paul held no illusions about having left before anyone could see or hear him crying. He knew they had, somehow. He hoped John was happy about it because that would make one of him. Paul felt gutted, wished he could've held it in a bit longer, and knew that him showing weakness like that was going to be used against him, someday.

For a moment, he considered seeing the Badge to request a transfer. The only other place he knew to host a similar course was near Brecon in Wales, which was even more of an inconvenience to get to than Aldershot, but anything was better than having to live with this kind of humiliation. Knowing Lennon, he would never allow Paul to move past it. He'd milk it dry, and even then he probably wouldn't let it go. After all, wasn't that exactly the kind of bloke he was? But in the end, he'd decided against it. Running off like a beaten puppy would only give Lennon what he wanted. Paul didn't very much like to give him that satisfaction. Of course, their W.O. wouldn't have been in his office even if Paul had gone to see him, what with the group spending most of the day on the assault course. Part of him wished he was there so he could let off some steam. And then there was that other part which just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. By the feel of things, the doctor had been right about that concussion.

"Make no mistake, Private," he'd lectured when Paul insisted he felt fine and didn't need to take it easy. "It can take anywhere from a few hours to a few days to manifest, but you will experience discomfort in the form of headaches, dizziness, nausea, and several other symptoms. They may be benign or severe, but you will have complaints."

Perhaps it wasn't the blow to his head at all that made him feel this sore and tired. It could be, but then it might just be the stress that caused his head to throb this much, he mused. Whatever the reason, he really didn't want to go back to that unfriendly doctor with his tail between his legs and admit defeat. What good would lying in bed for however long they'd keep him do, anyway? He'd be bored out of his mind and it'd feel like an eternity, just like it had when he got that mystery illness after Scout camp. No, Paul decided, he'd just grin and bear it. As long as he could function, he'd be alright. He just needed to be somewhere quiet, where he could just sit, and clear his mind enough to face whatever Lennon had in store for him.

So, he'd wandered off to a secluded spot behind the library where few people ever came. For months now, it had been Paul's go-to place when he wanted to get away from it all. The chapel was nice too, and a much better option when it was too cold or too wet to be sitting outside. He'd spent a fair few hours there, some on his own, and some talking to the chaplain. They'd had some good conversations, although Paul usually ended up casually deflecting and politely excusing himself when certain topics came up. There were some things he didn't feel like sharing, and some stuff he simply couldn't fathom discussing in a church with a preacher, such as his sex life and everything attached to it. That would have been too awkward, so he'd steered clear and focused on other things instead, such as family, school, music, hopes and dreams for the future, and hobbies.

When it was even the slightest bit doable, though, he'd come here, to what Paul considered his own little corner, far away from everyone else. Basically, it was the farthest he could get from the dormitories without leaving the terrain and therefore, hardly anyone else ever came there. Despite the shitty weather, Paul was in luck. Down here in the South, it was a few degrees warmer than op North, and there hadn't been as much snowfall. But even better, the library stood right against the direction of the wind, meaning there was a wide enough strip of ground that was completely free from snow and fairly dry.

Though it was still very cold and the shivers he felt came from deep within his stomach, Paul mused how much worse it would've been if the red bricks he was leaning against hadn't shielded him from the thin, piercing wind. The same wind that chased anyone who didn't have to be outside into the warmth of the various buildings. Paul had seen just three people on his way to his secret corner, and they had all been headed to the main building, away from where he was going. Knowing he was completely alone out there, he allowed himself to relax. In part to keep warm, he pulled up his legs and wrapped his arms around his shins so he could rest his forehead against his knees. With his coat blocking most of the daylight, Paul finally gave himself a break and stopped fighting the tears he'd been struggling so hard for so long to hold back.

Paul had never really been one to be reduced to sobs, at least not for long. Not even as a little kid, though he'd wailed with the best of them when it either suited his best interests or when he felt genuinely heartbroken. Even though tears had always come easily, something he hated about himself, he'd learnt to control them for the most part and he rarely broke down completely, if only out of fear of being unable to stop. So, though his entire body racked with sobs at first and people definitely would've heard his hoarse, stuttered gasps if they'd been anywhere near, he soon calmed himself down, unable to stop crying completely, but at least he wasn't acting like a hapless child anymore.

Eventually, it sort of stopped on its own, with just the occasional tear escaping anymore. In a way, Paul felt better, yet he was even more exhausted than before and his headache was back with a vengeance. Shielding his eyes from the light seemed to help a bit so he hadn't changed his position and just sat there for a while. Paul hadn't the faintest how much time had passed, or how much longer he'd be able to stay there before the cold would force him inside when a subtle noise rudely tore him out of his thoughts. There was no mistaking that sound: someone had entered his secret hiding place and approached him in the same way someone might try to reach a wild animal: slowly and apprehensively. From the corner of his eye, he could see who it was. He quickly wiped his face dry on his trouser legs but didn't bother lifting his head.

"Piss off, Lennon."

Paul didn't even know why he tried; it wasn't as if he really expected John to comply which, of course, he didn't. Rather than go away as instructed, the insolent bastard came closer and sat himself down right next to Paul; not touching, but close enough to actually feel his body heat. To make matters worse, he eventually started talking.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said. About yer mum, I mean. I know how you feel and I'm sorry, alright?"

"No, John, you don't," Paul grumbled. "You have no idea how I feel. Now please, just leave me alone."

When John continued to ignore his request, Paul cast him a covert sideways glance, meaning to glower him into buggering off if he had to. In order to do that, John would first have to look him in the eye, which he didn't. In fact, Paul noted, John was staring down at his hands with a peculiar expression on his face. He seemed to be at odds with himself about something but whatever that was, Paul couldn't be arsed to care. He buried his face in his arms again, trying to close himself off from anything John might say or do. He'd nearly nodded off when, after several minutes of ignoring him, John spoke up, his voice uncharacteristically low and devoid of its usual acidity.

"You're feeling like you're drowning in a bottomless pool of sorrow. It pulls you down until you think you can't possibly take another breath and your broken heart is going to kill you. But it doesn't, it just eats at you and eats at you, consuming every bit of joy, until all that's left is despair and you start to wish you were dead, just to get away from the pain."

Paul turned his head, more than a little surprised by that he just heard. He realised how ravaged his face had to look, but then John didn't look too great either. It was barely visible from where he sat, but he thought he could see tears glisten in John's eyes.

"It's the kind of agony that makes you go barmy," John continued. "You'll drive yerself mad thinking in circles, believing you could have done something to stop it, convinced that somehow, you're to blame, that something you said or did caused it to happen. You're being haunted day and night by all the little things you've done wrong, all the secrets you kept and the lies you told, wishing you could take back all the times you said 'I hate you' and say 'I love you' instead. You keep wishing you could apologise, give her a hug and a kiss, or just make it better but you can't, and it just jumps at you when yer least prepared. And yet, you learn to deal with it, learn to push the pain to the back of your mind and you pull yerself together. Because nobody truly understands, do they? They'll tiptoe around you, so afraid to say the wrong thing and set you off, they end up avoiding the subject altogether. So you stop talking about it after a while because talking about it makes everybody else uncomfortable."

By now, Paul was sitting up straight, transfixed by each syllable. As he tortured his brain for something to say, John took a shuddering breath and continued talking, his voice audibly cracking. "You pretend everything's fine because people expect you to go on with your life when you can't; not really anyway. You learn to smile again, you even learn to feel happy again, but it's never the same and you can never really move away from it. How could you, when everything reminds you of that hole in your life? It's not just the empty chair, or the laughs you no longer get to share, or the pictures which never get replaced with a more recent one anymore. It's right there inside of you, in yer dreams, or when you listen to music, or when yer reading a book, or when you see her face looking back at you when you look into the mirror. It's always there yet you learn to hide it from everyone and you smile when you want to cry. So in the end, your friends just assume you're okay when deep down, yer still struggling to get through the day without breaking down...." His voice trailed off, and Paul could now clearly see he was crying: big, fat tears chased each other down John's cheeks, faster than he could wipe them away. It wasn't until he opened his mouth and tasted salt that he realised he was in the same boat.

"When?"

"Two and a half years ago," John mumbled. "One moment she was there, the next she was gone. Run over by a fucking car, just a few yards from where I live. Dead before she hit the ground, they said. The driver was a policeman, how's that for irony? You?"

Paul took a shaky breath, his voice sounding strangled when he muttered, "It was four years ago last Halloween. Cancer. Nobody told us she was going to die, so we never got a chance to really say goodbye."

John shifted about a bit. "I'm really sorry, about what I said." He sniffed noisily in an apparent attempt to stop his nose from running until Paul took pity and offered him his handkerchief. He wasn't using it anyway.

"Me too. I wouldn't have said what I said if I'd known you'd been through the same thing, you know. Drag, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is."

They didn't speak for a little while, each immersed in their own thoughts. Apart from the occasional sniff or sigh, not much could be heard until Paul broke the silence. "Do you think... Do you reckon we could try, you know, to work it out? I mean, I don't see us becoming best friends or anything, but maybe we could just, you know, stop this... this... whatever the fuck this thing is?"

John nodded slowly, "Yeah, I reckon I've had enough of it. Let's make that old preacher happy and smoke the pipe of peace, eh?" He smiled sadly, held out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm John Lennon. I don't believe we've met."

"Paul McCartney," he replied, managing an almost-smile, shaking John's hand. "Nice to meet you, John."

After a few awkward chuckles, they lapsed into a slightly uncomfortable silence which John broke nearly immediately. "Hey, Paul?"

"What?"

"Nothing," John muttered. "It's just..." And before Paul knew what was going on, he found himself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. For a second, he tried to wrestle out of John's grip, to no avail. As he realised the other lad was sobbing into his shoulder, Paul gave up the struggle and allowed himself to weep as well. When had he become such a leaky tap, anyway?

The crying only lasted a few moments, and Paul reckoned it was probably more about getting rid of all the pent-up frustration that had amassed between them over the past months than anything else. Now that they'd agreed to stop fighting, that tension had to go somewhere so he supposed that was as good an explanation as anything, especially considering what they'd just talked about. But it didn't explain why John was still holding on to him for dear life even after their tears had dried up. Little by little, a new feeling started to form in the pit of his stomach. He'd experienced it before and hadn't liked it one bit then, either, but now it was rather overwhelming. Paul felt extremely uncomfortable, wanted to get out of there and sort himself out. He tried to push John away, but he was stuck. And all the while that alarming sensation kept increasing.

"John, you need to stop hugging me," he mumbled, his voice barely audible due to the tightness of John's grip. Panic was starting to set in and still, he couldn't wrestle himself free. "Geroff! Please..."

"Come on, Macca," John complained, refusing to acknowledge Paul's attempts to break the embrace. If anything, he held on even tighter, which in turn exacerbated the unwelcome feeling even further. "This isn't the time to start a row."

"I'm not," he cried out, desperate to get away. "Let me go or I'll-...."

 

-*-

 

**John**

 

"Oh, bloody hell! You've got to be joking!"

He couldn't believe it. Couldn't deny it, either, but still. Stuff like that didn't happen. Did it? In films, maybe, but in real life? Out of nowhere, just like that? John found that very hard to believe, but still. It had happened, no matter how surreal it felt.

"I'm sorry, but I did try to warn you," Paul murmured, looking incredibly embarrassed.

Well, that was a poor excuse for the disgusting thing he'd just done, John thought. "I thought you meant... fucking hell, Paul... That's seriously fucked op, la'."

The response was pitiful, and for a moment he thought the miserable sod was going to cry again. "It wasn't intentional, alright? I couldn't help it. Sorry!"

John felt his stomach churn at the thought of what just happened, but he did also feel sorry for the lad, who scrambled away, looking positively mortified. Then again, John wasn't feeling too brilliant either, having been on the receiving end of it all, and all that. Christ, would he ever be able to scrub this memory from his already traumatised mind?

The smell didn't help matters much, nor did the fact that Paul was heaving again, albeit not all over John's shoulder this time. The poor kid was doubled over, several feet away, shaking so badly John could actually see it from where he was sitting. He took off his coat and shook off most of the sick, but somehow the smell wouldn't leave his nostrils. Combined with the noises coming from Paul, John actually had to swallow a few times to keep himself from meeting the same fate. Manning up, he eventually managed to approach Paul, who'd stopped retching. For now.

"Are you done? It's the penicillin, isn't it?"

"Feeling a bit better, yeah," Paul coughed, as he wiped his mouth. Remembering their little crying spell, John gave back the now not-so-clean handkerchief. Freezing halfway through blowing his nose, Paul turned his gaze to John, raising those arched eyebrows even higher than their usual position. "How do you know about that?"

"Saw the pill bottle, didn't I," John shrugged, offering a hand to pull Paul to his feet. Somehow, he didn't look like he'd be able to do that on his own. "Anyroad, I had to take it once as a kid. I was even sicker than you were just now. At some point, it came out of both ends at the same time."

Paul still looked a bit green, but he managed a hoarse chuckle, "What makes you think it didn't?"

"Oh, lovely, mate," John groaned, shivering violently, which was only partly due to the fact that it was too cold to walk around with his coat off. "Cheers for the mental image. It didn't, though, did it?"

Paul shook his head, then closed his eyes. for a moment, he looked like he was going to be sick again, but to John's relief, he wasn't. Rather surprisingly, he more or less used John to steady himself as they slowly walked back in the direction of the dorms. John didn't comment on it. Instead, he decided to make a dedicated effort to really patch things up and grabbed Paul's arm, earning himself what looked like a grateful smile. "I don't think it did, no. But if it had, I'm sure you wouldn't want to know."

"I wouldn't be so sure. It'd be perfect ammunition to use against you in times of need," John joked, painfully aware that mere hours ago, he actually wouldn't have hesitated to use something like that to humiliate Paul in front of everyone. How had he ever sunk that low?

"Fair enough," Paul grinned, his smile rapidly falling when he let out a sickly belch. John could see him swallowing thickly. "Bloody hell... Anyway, I think we both could use a shower and some clean clothes."

"I know I do," John quipped, pulling a face when he got a whiff of that nasty smell again. "Thanks to you. Seriously..."

Despite clearly feeling as shitty as ever, Paul forced a miraculously big smile, giving him an almost smug expression. "I did warn you...."

"Oh, shut yer gob, Macca."


	9. With A Little Help From My Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't leave too many stupid mistakes in this one...

**8 January 1961**

 

**John**

 

Where was Plan B when you needed it? Had John known his original scheme wouldn't turn out the way he expected it to, he might have spent some more time fine-tuning it or coming up with an alternative. However, since he'd assumed everything would go exactly how he envisioned it, he hadn't given it more thought and that left him facing a dilemma.

In the week that had gone by since he and Paul buried the hatchet, John had come to one conclusion after the other. First of all, he discovered that he actually had been dead wrong about the bloke. Had he known how alike they really were, he would've ended the feud much sooner. He might not even have started it in the first place. Things could have been so different if they'd got to know each other sooner. For one thing, John wouldn't have had to deal with the immense amount of boredom he had been dealing with for days now. If anything, his little war with Paul had kept him busy. Now that he wasn't constantly plotting revenge or thinking of better ways to taunt the kid, he had all this free time on his hands and no clue as to how to fill those idle hours. Under normal circumstances, having a friend nearby would have fixed that problem. Instead of fighting, he and Paul could have spent their free time chinwagging, or possibly even breaking the rules together since they both seemed to enjoy sticking it to the man.

But, that was the whole issue, wasn't it? He didn't have Paul around to entertain him. He hadn't been around for days.

John thought back to that day. Being spewed on was bad enough, but nothing a hot shower and some fresh clothes couldn't fix. The real problem was that instead of feeling better, Paul had only got worse as the day progressed. He put up a brave face, and he seemed keen enough on talking about all sorts of shite once they actually managed to get past those awkward first steps. Maybe that embarrassing incident behind the library had broken the ice, John wasn't sure. All he knew was that after appearing to feel a lot better for an hour or two, Paul had dashed off mid-sentence to throw up again, and he'd only got increasingly sicker until John had taken matters into his own hands and more or less dragged the lad to the doctors' by the scruff of his neck.

Even then, sick as a dog and barely able to walk upright without help, Paul foolishly kept insisting he was fine and didn't need to see a doctor, let alone be subjected to the battery of tests and scans they'd done. John stuck around long enough to find out what was wrong. Well actually, he'd been told to bugger off at some point. And as far as those doctors were aware of, he'd gone away. He really hadn't, though, not until some orderly caught him lurking and physically removed him from the infirmary but by then, he'd heard enough.

Once Paul started cooperating, his story and the test results finally lined up and the verdict was clear: he didn't have a 'mild concussion' at all. Oh, he had one alright, but instead of 'Grade 1', it turned out to be 'Grade 3', which apparently was about as bad as it could get, and despite his protests, he was hauled off to a dimly lit room somewhere on the ward, where he was apparently put on bedrest. John wasn't sure how long he'd have to stay in bed, though. He was caught before he could find that out. There weren't nearly enough spots for him to stalk Paul and the nurse who escorted him to his room to keep from being seen. Oh well, at least John knew where to go looking for his former best enemy.

And that's pretty much how he ended up facing his current predicament. John had decided he wanted to visit Paul - who wasn't allowed any visitors yet for some reason - so he cooked up a scheme. The basic plan was to fake being sick so he'd have the entire day to himself, and then use the lunch break, when only the bare minimum of personnel would be at their stations, to sneak onto the ward and into Paul's room. If anyone happened to see him, he could always try to bluff his way out of it by saying he had to deliver the letter that had come for Paul.

All day, John had looked forward to putting his plan into action because - and he nearly couldn't bring himself to admit it - that old preacher had been right all along. In the few hours they spent talking, John had actually started to grow fond of the black-haired boy. Perhaps not quite fond enough to consider the bloke 'best mates for life material' just yet, but he could see them being good friends, assuming they'd still get along once they moved past the relatively safe topics. Only one way to find out, right? So, when everyone headed to the mess hall for lunch, John got out of bed and went on his little adventure.

He'd had no trouble convincing the Badge he was ill. At breakfast, John had overstuffed himself so thoroughly with porridge, it had felt like he'd eaten a brick. Halfway through role call, he couldn't keep himself from rather spectacularly chucking it all up right in front of Sergeant Major Martin, even if he'd tried. Which he didn't since that was the whole point of eating that shite. He hadn't quite broken his personal distance record of nearly four feet, but bloody hell was it a lot. For a few good moments, John had actually been amazed by it. He didn't recall eating that much.

Needless to say, he'd immediately been excused even though once he'd got rid of it, he felt right as rain. And a good thing that was too, because John absolutely hated being ill. When it was finally time to go, he even managed to reach the patient ward without being seen but that's where his success ended because Paul was fast asleep. John had not been prepared for that eventuality. In his imagination, he'd assumed Paul would be awake and eagerly waiting to catch up with his former adversary. Who slept in the middle of the day anyway? Oh, right. Sick people did. Crap.

Unwilling to admit defeat just yet - he had spewed up for this after all - John looked around, hoping to find something to help kill the time. He soon discovered he'd ended up in the most boring room in the world. There simply wasn't anything remotely entertaining. Well, there was Paul. He'd kept him amused for months, but that was all in the past now, John reminded himself, so he had to find some other way to have fun. He did notice the lunch tray hadn't been touched yet. How odd.

From his many hours doing kitchen duty, John knew the trays for the sick personnel always went out first, so it must've been there for at least fifteen minutes, right? Could even be as much as thirty. Who'd let their food sit there that long? The only reason John could think of that would explain the anomaly was that Paul must not have wanted it, so he decided to do them both a favour and eat it for him. That kept him occupied for about two whole minutes. It was only some toast, a banana, and a glass of milk after all.

Then, he tried to decipher the chart which hung from the foot of the bed. Put his glasses on for it and everything. The good bit was that there was loads and loads of stuff written on it. The bad bit was that he couldn't make much of it. He'd never seen such terrible handwriting. Seriously, he'd seen hieroglyphs that made more sense. It was even worse than his, and he knew himself to have an atrocious scrawl. Even he couldn't read half the shite he wrote so that said something about this. Whoever wrote those funny words and mysterious numbers sure could stand to work on their penmanship if they wanted it to be legible to anyone. Although, John mused, he probably wasn't supposed to read it in any case, not that he cared very much about what he was and was not supposed to do. He wasn't supposed to be there either, and yet, there he was.

Ultimately, it boiled down to one sad conclusion: there really only was one thing to look at in that bland room, and that was Paul himself. Watching the bloke sleep was alright for a short while, but John soon started to feel uncomfortable doing it. Blokes really shouldn't be watching other blokes, let alone count their freckles and moles, should they? Wasn't that a bit queer, like? Of course, far be it from John to care about conventions. But still. Perhaps not the best plan. But then, that lead him right back to where he started: he either had to admit defeat and head back, or do something to rescue Plan A.

He went for the latter.

"Paul, wake up!"

No reply. Probably not loud enough. He couldn't very well be screaming at the sod, if only because someone might hear and kick him out, but maybe just a little bit louder?

"Oi, McCartney! Rise and shine, you lazy git! I'm fucking bored!" In John's mind, that should have done the trick. He had raised his voice a little but not enough to raise suspicion, and poked the lad's leg for good measure, to very little avail. The only response he got was that Paul produced a not very charming snore before he moved from his back over to his side facing away from John. But he was still as comatose as before, so John required a different tactic.

He tugged at the corner of the bed sheet, untucking it bit by bit until he had access to his intended goal. Unscrupulously, he reached up and tickled underneath the ball of Paul's foot. John giggled softly when his poor, defenceless victim responded by pulling away from the offending fingers and rubbing the sole of his foot on the arch of his other one. It would seem Paul was starting to rouse, because he grumbled, nearly inaudibly, "Fuck off, Mike," before pulling the sheet over his head and becoming still once more.

John didn't know who this Mike person was, but he was very pleased to at least be closer to his goal. He sauntered over to the bedside table and picked up the mug which he had emptied not too long before. A second later, it fell to the floor - completely accidentally, of course - but the impact of the enamel cup against the ugly, linoleum surface made surprisingly little noise. At least, not enough to provoke a response from sleeping beauty. However, rattling a fork against the inside of said cup filled the room with a lovely, loud, metallic noise which turned out to be perfect for raising the dead. Or, in this case, blokes who slept like them.

  
**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

He played his heart out, and the audience loved every second of it. His fingers danced across the frets, creating the best guitar solo of his life, backed up by his band mates, who were playing better than they ever had before, their driving beat thumping off the walls. He shook his sweat-drenched hair from his eyes and took it up a notch, his voice which was already raw, rising above the wails of his guitar. One song ended seamlessly into the next which had them playing even faster and louder, cheered on by a faceless crowd which got completely swept up in the music, the mass of bodies dancing wildly to the merciless rhythm of the song. This was his night, his band, and his audience. Playing for them was the best feeling in the world, and if the show went on forever, that would be fine by him.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, his father was there, telling him he was late for school and dangling an alarm clock in front of his face. The audience faded away like smoke, and now it was just him and that horrible ringing noise, which annoyed him terribly. He didn't want to go to school - he hadn't done his homework anyway. All he wanted was to be back on that stage, and he nearly managed to get there when it occurred to him he was lying in bed, listening to a loud rattling noise which made his head hurt.

Groaning something even he couldn't understand, Paul tried to block out the sound by wrapping his arms around his head. It actually worked. That is to say, the clangour went away but then, so did his dream. Faster than he could recall what it was he'd been dreaming about, the details disappeared. It was like trying to hold onto water: the harder he tried to grab it, the faster it slipped away. What remained was the question what that noise had been, and where it had come from.

Paul forced his eyelids apart, unable to keep them open for more than half a second at a time. How long had he been able to sleep? Going by how terribly knackered he still was, it couldn't have been very long. For a few moments, he blinked furiously, fighting off the urge to snuggle deeper into his pillow and kip some more. Eventually, his surroundings came into focus. When he noticed movement in his periphery, Paul automatically turned towards it, assuming they were coming to take his blood pressure again or something tedious like that. He couldn't have been further off the mark if he'd tried.

"What the fuck are _you_  doing here? Get the hell away from me, Lennon!"

Who the fuck had let that bastard into his room? Paul had no idea, but he'd find out and he'd make sure they wouldn't do it again. Of all the people... There he was, feeling like boiled shite and looking the part, and if that wasn't bad enough, the person responsible for it had to show up. For what? Another round? To gloat? Why? Well, whatever the reason, Lennon could go fuck himself, because Paul wasn't having any of it.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Piss off. Now!"

Rather than leave, John just stood there, looking like a kicked dog. Paul didn't get it. What had that arse expected, a welcoming committee? He blinked a few times, and then seemed to remember how to talk. "What's wrong with you, Macca? I thought we were past all that." Now he didn't just look stupid, he sounded it too.

"For the millionth time," Paul snarled, his voice still hoarse from disuse, "don't use that name! Only people I like can call me that and I certainly don't like you, Lennon. Leave me the fuck alone. Or do you want me to tell the Badge the real reason I'm in here? I will, you know. I don't give a fuck if that makes me a rat. I have nothing to lose. But you do, don't you? Just... bugger off." Without waiting for an answer, he lay back down and turned his back on John. Maybe, just maybe, he'd fall asleep again. At least that way, he could pretend seeing that piece of shit in his room was just a nightmare.

There were no footsteps moving away. He could hear Lennon walking, but rather than head for the door, he was rounding the bed. Hating himself for it, Paul briefly opened one eye, hoping to look murderous enough to get the message across. Words obviously didn't seem to get through to that thick head. All he saw was a lot of confusion. Really, the bloke's face was pretty much a question mark. Paul threw him another contemptuous glare and buried his face in his pillow. At least that way, he couldn't be tempted to look. However, he could still hear John.

"What are you on about, Paul? They already know what happened; you were there when the chaplain said it could get me kicked out. Weren't you listening?"

"Bollocks," Paul muttered. He couldn't believe he was going through the effort of lifting his head for this. "I don't know what you're playing at, but stop trying to mess with my head, alright? Fucking hell, aren't you ever satisfied? Are you that pathetic that you have to come to someone's hospital room just to bother them some more? Christ..."

Rather than take the hint and give up, Lennon sat himself down on the foot of the bed, ignoring Paul's vicious attempts at kicking him off. "I don't understand. I thought we had put all this crap behind us after we had that talk."

His voice had been low enough for Paul to get curious, so he turned his head and frowned at John. "What talk?"

"Last week... In the chapel," John elaborated, gesturing vaguely in a random direction, "when we hashed it all out. I mean, I know it got a bit heated and all, but we worked it out, didn't we? I brought you here, for fuck's sake."

"No shit. My head may be messed up, but I haven't forgotten who put me here, John. You don't have to remind me."

"Calm your tits, mate. Christ... I was referring to me dragging yer arse in here the other day because you were so bloody ill after that talk we had about our mothers." John got up and began to pace, his voice getting more anxious the longer he spoke. "I know that knock on yer head did some damage but you have to remember that at least, Paul. If this is meant to be a joke, it isn't funny."

"Do I look like I'm having a laugh?" Something inside Paul wanted to remember, like a vague sense of deja-vu, but it still sounded too unrealistic to believe any of it was real. Then again, could he be absolutely sure of anything? The whole thing made his head spin, and that, in turn, made him feel irate. "Stop lying to me. You're the last person I'd talk to about that."

"Then how do I know, right? How would I know yer mum died of cancer when you were fourteen if I didn't get it from you? Explain that, Paul." The look John gave him was expectant, challenging almost.

"I do talk to people, you know," Paul argued. Who would've told John, though? Not the Badge, it definitely wasn't him. And he couldn't see Father McKenzie breaking his vow of secrecy, either. He knew Neil was mates with John, but would he say anything? After witnessing firsthand how devastated he'd been by his mum's death? Doubtful. That left the twins but Paul didn't even know if they even knew John. Still, he had to get it from somewhere. Maybe it was Dan or Dave, after all. Or maybe Neil had told him, hoping it'd get John to see reason. It'd be quite the departure from his refusal to get caught in the middle but people changed their minds, didn't they? Anything was possible. Well, nearly anything. Paul knew one thing for sure: John didn't hear it from him. He'd know. He'd remember telling that to his worst enemy! Wouldn't he? "Someone could've told you."

"Someone did tell me: you."

"As if."

"You did, though. Christ..." Had he had any, John would've been clutching his hair by now. Since he didn't, he just stood there, sort of rubbing his scalp. "You want proof? Fine. Yer mad about rock 'n' roll; can't get enough of it. You play the guitar; lefthanded. You've got a younger brother who apparently doesn't have a name because you kept calling him 'our kid', but I've got a feeling he's called Mike. He fancies himself a photographer. If I remembered right, he turned seventeen yesterday. You, on the other hand, will be nineteen in June. Oh, and for the past months, you've been hiding behind the library to get away from me. Not just me, though, the whole army thing. It's basically where you go to clear yer head. Do I have to go on or do you believe me now?"

John's words slowly sank in. There was absolutely no way he could've heard all of that from someone else. The stuff about music and Mike, maybe, but nobody knew about the library, not even Neil. He'd been trying to get Paul to tell where he disappeared to, but he'd been wanting to keep that place his own little secret. John could've followed him there, sure, but the only way for him to know why he spent so much time there was if he himself had explained it to John.

If he had indeed talked about that, it had to mean they were, well, talking. Which probably meant John was telling the truth. But why couldn't he remember any of the stuff that apparently happened as recent as a week ago? Unless... Paul rubbed his eyes, willed himself to focus despite the fogginess making it next to impossible to think clearly. What was it that doctor had said?

'Amnesia is not uncommon, particularly in young patients such as yourself. You can permanently lose some or even all memories of the incident, as well as the moments leading up to it, and the hours - even days - following it.'

Memory loss was most definitely one of the complications he had experienced, Paul already knew that. Most of what he knew about getting his head knocked in, was what George and Dot had told him. He could recall getting into that row with John, and many of the insults, but not how he ended up getting knocked out. He remembered waking up, and parts of the walk to Dot's place, and definitely the things that had been said there, but not how he managed to get from her house back to Forthlin Road. The whole day was a collection of bits and pieces, really. There didn't seem to be any pattern to it.

Perhaps those weren't the only things he had forgotten. For instance, the train ride back south seemed very short in his recollection and if he was honest, Paul had no idea how or when he ended up in this hospital bed, either. He'd more or less assumed he'd been there ever since that incident in the barber's chair, which was a bit blurry too. Was that really a week ago, and was it the eighth now? That meant he was missing the better part of three days but more importantly, he'd missed Mike's birthday. How was he ever going to make up for that? What a mess...

But still... If something happened between John and him, something that got them talking instead of fighting, especially when it involved revealing some of his deepest secrets, surely he'd remember that? Wouldn't he? Was it possible to forget something that massive? Paul frowned, and threw the other bloke a scrutinising look. He seemed genuine enough. If he didn't know any better, Paul might say John looked worried. Then again, he apparently didn't know better. Or did he?

"If you're having me on, just say so now, John. I'm not in the mood for jokes."

John sat back down and shook his head in earnest. "I'm dead serious. We talked for hours; why else would I be here? Look, this can't be normal. I'm going to find a doctor or something, alright?"

"Don't bother," Paul sighed, more or less convinced that this really wasn't some sick joke. It was a hard pill to swallow, but if he kept resisting, that would just make him the bad guy, wouldn't it? Especially since he knew his mind was cocked up. "It's the concussion. Causes memory loss. They just didn't say I was going to miss entire conversations. No, fuck that, and make it pretty much entire days."

He yawned, settled back on his pillow and tried to gather his thoughts. "Alright, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. So... You're saying we talked? What about?"

For the next ten, fifteen minutes, he listened to John's recapture of the day in question. Some of it sounded familiar, or at least it gave Paul a sense of deja-vu. By the time he learned about the cry they shared, Paul was able to recall little tidbits that had been floating around in his head, but had been so out of context, he hadn't been able to place them. "Yeah, that sounds familiar," he mused. "Didn't I... Christ on a bike, please tell me I didn't really..."

"What, get sick all over me? Yeah mate, that really happened," John guffawed. "Why else do you think I haven't visited you before? If I never see anyone spew ever again, it'll be a week too soon."

Of all the memories he could have lost forever, that one would definitely take the number one spot. "Sorry, man. That must've been horrible," Paul apologised. "But I haven't chundered in days, so I promise it won't happen again. Or at least," he grinned, "I don't recall being sick." He yawned again, a bit more intensely this time.

"Tired?"

"Hmmm, knackered," Paul hummed, closing his eyes for a moment. It felt a bit alien, admitting something so simple to John. Part of him still felt the urge to keep his defences up, just to be on the safe side, yet somehow he also felt inexplicably alright about opening up a bit. He wondered what made him want to trust John, considering all he had put him through. "Comes with the territory, apparently. That's one of the reasons they're keeping me here, you know. I'm not allowed to do anything. It's dead annoying, I'm tellin' ye!"

"Well, they're supposed to know about these things, right?" John reasoned. "How long are they going to keep you here for, then?"

"I don't know," Paul shrugged. "Depends on how fast I get better or something. Could be up to six weeks, they said. They can forget about that, I swear. I'll go barmy if I have to stay in this fucking room that long!"

John snorted gleefully. "Too late, son. Yer already an 'eadcase."

"Hey, listen. My brain may be scrambled, but at least that proves I've got one, you know. I'm not so sure the same can be said for you mate," he chuckled, trying to kick John off the bed again.

"Ever the charming lad, aren't you? Well, perhaps I should leave then, and take this with me," John huffed, pulling an envelope out of his pocket and casually fanning himself with it.

Paul lunged forward to grab the letter, which he deeply regretted the moment the room started to spin so fast it made him see black spots. He covered his eyes with a frustrated groan and lay back down, quietly begging for the dizziness to subside whilst muttering expletives under his breath. Eventually, his heart stopped pounding and his breathing returned to normal. Right about then, there was a slight pat against his leg. He carefully peeked through his fingers at John, who was watching him rather intensely.

"Hey, alright? D'you need anything?"

"Fine," he sighed, "just a bit woozy, is all. Perhaps I just need to eat something," he added, carefully turning his head to where he guessed his lunch would be. "What the... Why... Lennon, did you fucking eat my food?"

"Sorry, I skipped lunch and you didn't seem to want yours..."

"I was asleep! I never even noticed them bringing it in, you idiot," he grumbled, sounding a lot grumpier than he felt. How could he be angry when John was pulling that face? Paul wouldn't admit it, but he was rather amused by the way John looked remarkably like a kid who'd been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. It was a side of him he'd never seen before - or maybe he had but he'd forgotten - and it made it impossible to be truly upset about what he'd done.

"Sorry John, I didn't mean to blow up at you. Forget about it, alright? I'd really like to read that letter now, though." Reading was just one more thing he wasn't really allowed to do, but he didn't care. He was quite sure it was a letter from Dot, and he couldn't wait to read what she had to say about the topic they discussed before he left for Aldershot.

To his surprise, the envelope was handed over without any additional jokes, and John then stood up and headed towards the door. "Go'ead mate, have at it. I'm going to see if I can sneak into the kitchen and nick some scran. I'll be right back."

He disappeared so fast, it nearly made Paul's head spin all over again...

 

-*-

 

**John**

 

He couldn't believe his luck. Getting off the hospital ward was tricky and he had to hide inside a storage room full of linens and cleaning fluid for a moment to prevent running into the ageing doctor with the non-existent bedside manner. John vividly remembered the man from when he'd dragged Paul kicking and screaming - well, figuratively - to the infirmary. He didn't like the man, who'd had him removed from the ward when all he wanted was to know what was going on.

Another doctor with a lower rank was with him, and from the shards of conversation he picked up, they were doing rounds. Had he not left when he did, John realised, he would have been found hanging out with Paul. When the coast was clear, he quietly hurried towards the exit, ducking underneath windows and glancing around corners as he went, hoping to remain unnoticed. Now that lunch was over, there were people everywhere. Oh well, it'd be good practice for when they started stealth training. Eventually, he reached the unrestricted part of the base, allowing him to take a deep, relaxing breath and make a beeline for the kitchen.

Of course, that wasn't the hard part. He didn't know how busy the kitchen would be, or whether he'd be able to steal anything worthwhile. There'd undoubtedly be scraps, but John was hoping for something decent. The moment the corridor was empty, John hurried to the familiar door and peered through the small window near the top. He really didn't want to stay there too long, standing on tiptoes and looking suspicious as fuck, so when he didn't see anyone in the area closest to the door, he snuck in and used the side of the nearest refrigerator for cover.

Hoping nobody would see the top of his head, he peeked around the fridge into the main cooking area and that's when he saw exactly the kind of thing he needed: Father McKenzie's biscuit tin. At least, John thought it had to be the same one. He didn't think anyone else would have a tin with tropical birds painted on it. The thing was sat on the worktop, just a few yards from his hiding place, and it was full.

'Well, we were supposed to get biscuits for making peace,' John told himself to justify the fact that he was about to steal from a clergyman. 'And I bet he wouldn't mind if he knew they were going to Paul,' he added, still trying to rack up the courage to actually do it. Somehow, stealing a record from a shop wasn't nearly as scary as confiscating some biscuits from a chaplain. Then, after taking a deep breath and making sure one more time that nobody was watching, he streaked through the kitchen, grabbed the tin - nearly forgetting to close the lid - and tore right back out the door again, legging it until he deemed himself safe.

Panting, John leant against the wall of an empty corridor. He hadn't really looked where he was going; he'd pretty much ran into whichever direction he didn't see any people. It took a few moments to figure out, but then he concluded he had to be in the administrative area. That wasn't necessarily a good thing since the Badge's office was very near, but at least it wasn't as busy as other parts of the barracks. Still, he reckoned he had to look as if he was supposed to be there, so he quickly wiped the sweat off his brow and walked as confidently as possible back towards the medical wing, holding that tin as if he had a purpose for it.

Well he did, didn't he? As far as John was concerned, this was a very good substitute for the pitiful lunch. These biscuits were pretty much the best thing the kitchen had to offer and what's more, they were still warm. He could feel the slight heat radiating from the colourful container. If this wasn't the white flag that would put an end to Paul's doubts, then John didn't know what was.

John didn't know how, but he made it back to that blasted room. It was disappointingly easy; nobody so much as looked at him. Had he known that walking in as if he owned the place meant that nobody even questioned his presence, he wouldn't have bothered with all the furtiveness of his escape. It couldn't have taken him more than five minutes to get from those offices to Paul's room. Would those doctors even be gone yet? He put his ear against the door and listened intently for voices, only to find that the room was quiet.

With a triumphant smirk on his face, John opened the door, holding up the tin like a trophy. He was just about to say something clever when the way Paul looked shut him right up. He'd seen that expression several times before, usually aimed at him, and it never meant anything good. Feeling a lot less sure of himself than five seconds earlier, John took a closer look to see if he was being had but no such luck. Paul wasn't having him on, that frown was real. Something was definitely wrong...


	10. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)

**John**

 

The sound of the door clicking shut behind him seemed to flick a switch in John's brain. Rather than continue to stare at Paul in mute confusion, he jumped into action. "Hey man, what's wrong? Those doctors didn't give you bad news, did they? I nearly ran into them on the way out..."

"No, nothing like that," Paul mumbled, picking idly at his blanket.

"Then what is it? Is your dad alright?" John reached the foot of the bed and noticed the spot he'd occupied before was now unavailable, due to Paul having stretched out his legs a lot further than before. Since he had no intention of using a chair like normal people if only because the only one present in the room looked terribly uncomfortable, he gave Paul a nudge. "Move yer dolly pegs, son."

It took him a moment to comply but eventually, Paul pulled up his knees so there was room for John to install himself. The question, however, remained unanswered. Well, he'd sort of shrugged one shoulder, but what that was supposed to mean was anyone's guess. John made himself comfortable and placed the tin in his lap.

"Come on, Macca. I can tell something's bothering ye. If you tell me, I'll give you one of these biscuits." He underlined his words by opening the lid. A sweet smell of chocolate and butter instantly wafted through the room, making John's mouth water so much, he dove right in and wolfed down two biscuits at once without a second thought. With his mouth still full, he mumbled, "at least answer the damn question; it's only polite."

"Dad's fine, as far as I know. Thanks for asking, but I don't want to talk about it," Paul scowled.

"Why not?" For some reason, being left out annoyed John. Hadn't he done his best to make things right? He'd even apologised, which is more than most people he crossed swords with could say. Perhaps a bit more incensed than he meant it, he said, "or has the fact that we've made peace slipped yer mind? I didn't think I'd been gone long enough for you to forget that all over again."

Clearly, Paul didn't take the comment kindly. He didn't retreat behind that blasted wall of indifference yet, but John could clearly see him getting ready to shut himself off. "Don't be an arse, John. Just because you did an about-turn and decided we're going to be best mates now, doesn't make six months worth of crap go away."

"I never said best mates. Just... Well, why couldn't we be, anyway? Beats fighting, right?"

"The world doesn't work like that. There's more than just black and white, you know?" Paul sighed, seemingly coming down off his soap box. "It isn't personal, John. I appreciate what you're trying to do, it's just I can't change my opinion that fast."

"Fair enough. I just reckoned we could talk about it and eat these biscuits I... er... how did you phrase it? Right, 'rescued'. But if you don't want them, I'll just have to eat them meself while you get used to me not hating you anymore." To make his point, John leant back against the metal footboard and casually munched away, throwing seemingly uninterested glances at Paul every few seconds.

If he looked closely, John could just about see the war that was raging in Paul's head. The lad was clearly torn between his stubborn refusal to share his issues with his former enemy, on one hand, the need to talk about what was troubling him on the other, and also the desire to stop his stomach from rumbling which it did so loudly, John could clearly hear it. Of course, he didn't need to hear that to know Paul wanted his share of the sweets; the way his eyes kept darting towards that tin was enough of a clue. John didn't get the reluctance to just give in. If he were Paul, he would've capitulated long ago. How hard could it be to let bygones be bygones, and what would it take to overcome that lingering lack of trust?

When another loud rumble reached his ears, John took pity on Paul and held out the tin. "Tell you what. I'm going to tell you something embarrassing about myself, and then you'll tell me what the hell has got your knickers in a twist. That way, we both have good reason not to go talking behind each other's back. How's that sound?"

"You don't have to do that," Paul said, the moment he swallowed the first half of his biscuit, "I've got more than enough dirt on you already, don't I? Besides, it's not that I don't trust you, which quite honestly I don't, I just don't feel like talking about it."

"Suit yerself, but I do think you should let go of what happened. I have, so why can't you? But anyway... I just thought maybe you'd enjoy hearing about the time I nearly broke my neck, but if you don't want to know..." Ignoring the fact that he'd already lost count of how many biscuits he'd had, and that Paul only had one even though they were originally supposed to be for him, John continued to stuff his gob. He couldn't help it; those things were just so fucking addictive. If there ever came a day when he'd be only be allowed to eat one thing for the rest of his life, Chef Epstein's baked goods were very high on the list of contenders. John chuckled when he received a half-hearted kick. "What? No stories, no sweets. Yer lucky I let you have that one, son."

Paul rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. "Fine! Tell me the damn story if you want, just give me that tin, man. I'm starving."

"No no, it doesn't work that way, see? How do I know you'll tell me what's wrong if I hand over the ransom?" John cackled loudly at the indignant huff he received. He supposed Paul was trying to look angry, but the truth of the matter was that with his arms crossed like that and that expression on his face, he bore a striking resemblance to a sulking five-year-old and a fucking cute one at that. Unable to resist, John allowed him to have another one. "Oh, go on then."

With the colourful container safely out of Paul's reach - that little insolent git had somehow managed to grab three or four at once -  
John searched for the best way to share his tale of misfortune whilst his audience of one got comfortable. Maybe a bit too comfortable, John mused, as Paul curled up like a cat with the side of his face snuggled quite deeply into his pillow. It'd be a pity of he'd end up nodding off halfway through the story. For now, though, he seemed to be awake enough, so John cleared his throat and started talking.

"Alright, it all happened when I was an innocent wee lad of about ten," John started, ignoring the incredulous snort at the mention of innocence. "It was a lovely spring day in the sleepy streets of Woolton village when two young boys embarked on a marvellous adventure. Despite their difference in age, which was more than twenty moons, these lads had been the dearest and nearest of friends from the moment young John and his Dinky Toys showed up at even younger Ivan's doorstep; which so happened to be very close-by, since Messrs Lennon and Vaughan were neighbours. This-..."

"What did you say," Paul rudely interrupted, "the other boy's name was?"

"Ivan Vaughan," John supplied irately, "now shut yer gob, and let me tell my story or I'm not giving you no more food."

"Yeah, alright, it's just that I've been mates with Ivy for ages. Born on the same day, went to the same school, an' all that. Funny you should know him too." He furrowed his brow for a moment, apparently trying to process something. "Neighbours... Oh, don't tell me you live in one of those big houses on Menlove, the ones with the silly names?"

"What of it if I do?"

There was definitely an amused twinkle in Paul's eyes now. "It's just that... How many times have you called me a spoilt twat, when all the while you were the posh one? It's just funny, you know."

Alright, so maybe John wasn't as working class as he liked to think of himself. Maybe he lived a comfortable middle-class life in a proper neighbourhood where doctors and teachers lived. That didn't automatically make him 'posh', did it? "Where do you live then? I always pegged you for the Wirral or something."

"No man, I wouldn't want to be found dead there. I live in a council house in Allerton. You know, where they train the police horses. And before that, a few ones in Speke." He shook his head and munched on the last of his biscuits. "Imagine that: the two of us having a mutual friend and you being the plummy one. Funny. Anyway, go on. I'll shut up."

"Yes, please do," John quipped, earning himself another kick. "And by the way, my girlfriend lives in Hoylake, so it's not all bad. Now, where was I? Ah yes, on this glorious day, the two young lads were embarked on a fantastic adventure, climbing through the jungle other people might scathingly call their back yards. These brave souls had risked life and limb to reach higher ground, away from the perils of the lower territories, and soon they were facing a terrible abyss. Some people might have called it a ginnel, but not our young heroes. The oldest of the two surveyed the lands and came to the harrowing conclusion that the deadly divide had to be conquered if they ever wanted to reach the safety of home."

John quickly helped himself another biscuit, paying no attention to Paul's protest, and continued. "Sir Ivan made it safely across the chasm and Squire John was relieved to know at least one of them would live to fight another day. Bravely and boldly - not baldly - he then took his turn to face the danger and... Dropped into the void. Sir Ivan did all that he could to keep his companion from falling to his doom but it couldn't be helped; our brave but unfortunate squire was hopelessly tumbling into the horrible depths and no mortal ever saw or heard from him again. Well, at least not until after tea."

He was pleased to see a grin on Paul's face. "So, what did you think of this terrible tale of woe, Sir Paul of Speke to Allerton?"

"Oh, it was very good. So, what happened? Were you alright?"

"Some scrapes and bruises, mostly. Banged up me elbow pretty bad, though." John rolled up his sleeve and indicated a small mark. "Healed up well enough, but you can still see it if you know it's there. That's when I got penicillin, but I don't know if you remember that part of our talk. Anyway, Mimi was fuming, though I never knew if it was because I could've killed myself, or because I ruined a new jumper. I do think she felt sorry for me when the medicine made me so Ill, though. She can be a drag, but she loves me in her own way."

Paul nodded slowly and then turned his head to face John. "Who's Mimi, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Me aunt. Her real name's Mary, but everyone calls her Mimi. She's my mum's oldest sister, see." He noticed Paul was listening intently, but with a somewhat confused expression on his face. It was obvious he didn't understand why an aunt would be so upset something like that.

"Mimi raised me," he elaborated. Me dad left when I was three or something like that, and mum couldn't cope. She tried, but it was no use, so she gave me up. She'd come 'round the house a lot, and I could always visit her, but she was never quite there, you know. Julia - that's mum - got me hooked on rock 'n roll before she died, so it's not like she never did anything for me." John wasn't sure why he felt the need to defend his mother, particularly since Paul didn't appear to be judging her. He couldn't see anything other than compassion in his eyes, anyway.

To break the charged silence, John decided to eat some more, though he was starting to feel slightly nauseous from all the sugar. Then, deciding the awkwardness had lasted more than long enough, he sat back and eyed Paul expectantly. "Your turn, Macca. Just tell me what's on yer mind. I promise I'll take it seriously. I am capable of that, believe it or not."

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

John's candour left Paul at a loss for words for a few moments. Or maybe it was the somewhat detached way in which he'd said all those things that had him stumped. How much more heartache John had endured, and what had made him share as much as he had. It was humbling, if not more than a little awkward, to be given that much trust so soon, and it made Paul seriously reconsider his attitude towards John.

Up until then, he had been cautiously weighing every word, afraid to say something that might find its way back to him. After all, nearly six months of psychological warfare wasn't easy to forget. Just because John appeared to have put it all behind him, didn't mean it was that simple for Paul. But no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to deny things had changed between them. He couldn't possibly continue to hold a grudge when John was so actively trying to make up for what he'd done. The more he thought about it, the more Paul was beginning to believe that maybe it was time for him to meet John halfway and start showing some trust too.

"Alright, John, you win. Just promise you won't make fun of me for it, alright?"

"I swear on these biscuits," John pledged, rattling the half-empty tin. Paul didn't fail to notice he'd stopped eating. Probably feeling sick as a dog by now, he reckoned. He knew he would be, after eating that much. "Oh come on, I already said I'd take it seriously, what else do you want?"

"Leave off, John. I'm just nervous about telling you, is all. It's about that letter you brought me... It's from Dot. The girl I was with on New Year's," he elaborated when John frowned. "To make a long story short, the engagement is off. In fact, she doesn't want to see me at all anymore."

John let out a low whistle. "She binbagged you in a letter? That's harsh, man." For some reason Paul couldn't fathom, John hopped off the foot of the bed and tried to climb back on at the end where Paul had propped himself up. The whole exercise just felt... Well, weird.

"Erm John, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like, genius? Move over, will you?" It was actually quite impressive that John hadn't plummeted to the ground yet, given the minimal space he had.

Paul guffawed, "Yer not crawling into bed with me if that's your plan."

"It is, and I am. Now move, or I'll just sit on top of you and eat every last one of those biscuits. I'll probably end up spewing up all over you if I do, but that'd just make us even."

If Paul had learnt one thing about John, it was that once he made up his mind, getting him to change it was extremely difficult. Frankly, he didn't have the energy to lock horns over something that stupid, so he decided to save himself the trouble. Besides, he was still famished, so he begrudgingly moved a little to the side. "Fine, if you insist, but get rid of those dirty boots first."

"They're not dirty, I polished 'em this morn-.... Oh. Right." John smirked sheepishly when he saw the state of his shoes. Paul watched him fumble with the laces for a bit and then followed their trajectory when John unceremoniously kicked the boots across the room where one landed on top of the chair, and the other precariously balanced on the edge of the sink before falling to the floor.

"On second thought," he gasped dramatically, "perhaps you should keep 'em on."

"What? Oh!" John cackled loudly. "It's not that bad. I've smelt worse, trust me. I once had to clean the boots of the entire company, remember? Yours didn't exactly smell of roses either, la'. Anyway, you gonna let me under, or what?"

"No."

"Why not," John whinged whilst tugging at the blanket Paul was refusing to let go. "My feet'll get cold!"

"Not my problem. You can stay on top of the covers." Paul chuckled at the way John pouted at him, his bottom lip sticking out in a ridiculous way. "Pout all you want, you're not getting anywhere near my knickers, Lennon."

"Oh. Well, if yer wearing any, then there's no need for me to crawl under those sheets, is there," John cackled as he stretched out his legs and draped his arm around Paul's shoulders as if they'd been the best of mates forever, "we'll have to save the proper fun for our next date, then. So... what happened?"

"I already told you."

"Yeah, alright," John shrugged, "so you got a Dear John letter, but there's got to be more to it than that. For instance, when did you decide to get married?"

"A year ago, when Dot found out she was pregnant. We were both still in school, and we'd only been going out for a few months, but it's what you do, isn't it?" Looking for something to distract himself from the knowledge that he'd just told John Lennon of all people one of his best-kept secrets, Paul confiscated the dark blue metal container which had peacocks and parrots hand painted all over the sides and top and started to nibble. John didn't even seem to notice.

"Hang on a mo'...." he finally muttered, "you have a kid? Why are you here, then? I mean, yer old enough to collect dole if you can't get a job."

Paul shook his head. He never did enjoy to talk about that experience. It had hurt him and Dot more than either of them would ever admit - even to each other. "You don't get it. She lost the baby, months before I even signed up for this."

"Christ. Sorry, I thought... You know." John stayed silent for a moment, and Paul could almost guess what he was thinking. "I don't mean to be rude, but why did you stay engaged? I mean, if you didn't have to get married anymore..."

"You can't dump a girl right after she goes through something like that, can you?" Paul shrugged. It all seemed fairly self-explanatory to him. "And she's a nice girl, so I didn't see any reason to break it off. Gotta get married sometime, you know?"

He hesitated for a second, then decided to say it anyway. "I'd lie if I said I wasn't a little bit relieved... I mean, I love kids, man. I really do, and I want a big family some day, but we were still kids ourselves, you know? I think it'd be better to wait a few years." Something told him he didn't really have to explain himself, that John understood what he was trying to say, yet somehow he felt compelled to justify his thoughts.

"I always reckoned we'd enjoy life a bit first, have some fun, you know. Finish school, get jobs, maybe see a bit of the world, that kind of thing. We would've made it work, don't get me wrong, but becoming a dad at eighteen wouldn't have been my number one choice. It was sad when it happened, though. It's strange how quickly you get used to the idea, you know. And then suddenly it's over, and you find out that maybe you were kind of fancying the idea of having a kid." He sighed, remembering vividly how he'd put up a brave face for Dot and everyone else, acted a bit callous about it even, though he'd cried over it in the privacy of his bedroom. "But, you know, maybe it was a blessing in disguise. That's what Dot said anyway, you know. But yeah, I like her a lot, so I reckoned we'd just wait a few years and then get married and start a family."

John tightened his grip on Paul's shoulders for a moment in a half-hug sort of gesture. It felt nice. "So what changed?"

"Fuck if I know, John. We were alright for months and then, out of nowhere, she started saying stuff like, 'we've been engaged for a year, shouldn't we start planning the wedding', and dropping hints about putting out an announcement, and setting a date, and all that stuff. As if she was in a hurry, you know? That's what I told her the other day: 'you're not even eighteen yet, can't we at least wait with the planning until I get out of the army,' But I guess she didn't like that."

"We had a big row, the night you knocked my head in," Paul continued, remembering the ultimatum he'd been given and the not-so-charming way he'd responded to it. "All of a sudden, she's saying how she's seen a side of me she didn't fancy, and that if I couldn't be arsed to take care of myself, then how was I ever going to be a responsible parent, and who knows what else she had to say. I must've forgotten half of it, but it wasn't pretty, you know?"

"Strange, she seemed like the kind of girl to run away from a fight to me." Going by the sound of his voice, John was as surprised as Paul had been at the time.

"She is, usually. Look, I said stuff too. I don't want to blame it all on her, you know. I was frustrated with her too, for all sorts of reasons. Some of them were fair, but not all of them. I said stuff to her, things I knew would hurt her, you know. Anyway, I just buggered off after she said we should either get married soon or not marry at all. I sort of just left her hanging. I wrote her a letter after I got here, to apologise, even wrote her a song and everything."

He sighed again, for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour or so. The final part of the letter had really been what put him in such a bad mood. It made him doubt many things, and it definitely humiliated him. Still, now that he was talking, he seemed unable to stop.

"But now she goes and writes me to say she wants to call the whole thing off. She goes on and on about how she thinks that's what I wanted anyway, and that she's oh-so-sure I'll find someone new without even trying, which is a load of rubbish. She only went with me because she liked my guitar playing, you know? Anyway, she didn't leave it at that. She ended by telling me some other bloke has been wooing her for a while, and that she's going to go out with him now. I just don't get it. She must've known before I even got home. Makes me think she was just weighing her options or something. It's weird."

"Fucking hell, she really said she already has someone else lined up? No wonder yer upset, mate. C'mere." He pulled Paul closer until he had little choice but to reluctantly rest his head on John's shoulder. He, in turn, settled his cheek against the top of Paul's head, and they sat like that for a while.

It wasn't that Paul didn't enjoy physical contact... he did. He even didn't mind hugging a friend, or something like that. But this... Well, considering how he'd felt about John just an hour or two earlier, it was all just a bit much. It was alright to do this kind of thing with Mike, and he had on many occasions, but with a mate? Not even George, who cuddled people in his sleep, had ever held Paul like that. He humoured John for a little while, if only because he was too bloody knackered to deal with a pissed off John again. But eventually, he reached the point where he just had to say something. "Okay, this is officially weird, John."

"Shut up," he replied somewhat gruffly, though it was clear he meant well. "You don't believe in all that Northern Man crap, do ye? Why can birds do this kind of stuff and nobody gives a shit, but when blokes do it, it's weird? We're just mates, right?"

"I guess we are now," Paul mused. "When did that happen?"

"Does it matter? It's a lot better than bashing each other's heads in, right?"

"I guess," he grinned. "Don't tempt me, though. I've got a bedpan right here and I know how to use it. To knock you about the room with, that is."

"Oooooh, you should do that," John cried gleefully, "then we'll both have scrambled brains and we could share this room."

"I'm still not sure you actually have a brain, John."

"Maybe not, but I've got biscuits," John laughed, snatching back that bloody tin before Paul could stop him.

"Git!"

"Nancy boy."

Paul laughed out loud now, feeling much better after confiding in someone - even if that was the least likely person to trust. He playfully elbowed John in the ribs. "I hate you, you know."

"Hate you more."

"Impossible."

"Oh," John grinned, repositioning his arm so that Paul found himself back in the same awkward embrace he'd just managed to wriggle out of, "you don't know the depths of my hatred, son."

Since there was clearly no escape, Paul decided he might as well make himself as comfortable as possible. In a way, it wasn't even all that bad, sitting like that. "Actually, I think I do."

"Yeah, I guess you do. I'm really sorry, mate," John murmured. "I mean it."

"I know. Me too."

 

**-*-**

 

**Ringo**

 

Just a few minutes shy of five o'clock, Richard cast one last glance at his little corner of the barracks. Everything looked to be in order: come morning, he'd be all set to receive a new group of customers. Not that he expected them to show up in droves; the only truly busy days were really just the ones when the Recruits first arrived, then again when they were halfway through basic training, and their first return as Privates. Those days were always hectic, and though he enjoyed meeting everyone - however briefly - he rather preferred the normal days, when barracks personnel or officers dropped by for a shave or a proper haircut.

Well. Proper... There obviously wasn't a lot of variety. They basically had the options: short, very short, or bald. But still, most of them would linger a bit, chatting about whatever came to mind. And whoever was going to show up first the next day, good old Ringo and his shop would be ready for them. But for now, at the stroke of five, the first meal call sounded, which meant he was done for the day.

For the past few days, he had volunteered for an additional job, for lack of a better word. He had never been a big eater, so instead queueing up with everyone else at the same time for a meal he'd finish in ten minutes, he had preferred to do something else with his time. Chef Epstein had laughed a little at his question and explained that he already had people to deliver food trays to those who couldn't come to the mess, but that didn't bother him much. So, just like the previous days, Richard bypassed the communal dining area where dinner would soon be served and went into the kitchen instead.

"Ah, there you are, Private." Chef Epstein greeted him with a beaming smile. "Perfect timing, I was just wondering whether or not you'd show up today. Here you go, tell your friend hello from me, will you?"

"Sure thing, Chef." He immediately noticed how few trays the trolley contained compared to the last few days. "Only three today then, eh?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Collins and Corporal Pritchett have both been given a clean bill of health, and Lance Corporal Anderson has been invalided out of the army and was transferred to a civilian hospital today. It'll be easier for his wife and children to visit him now."

Richard nodded solemnly. Nobody had expected much else where the unfortunate Corporal was concerned. If anything, people had guessed the man would be moved sooner. He'd always had a reputation for having two left feet, but all his accidents had always been benign. Until he missed a step and took a tumble down some stairs, of course. Most people would walk away laughing, yet Anderson managed to break his back. It was always the kind ones that had the worst luck, Richard concluded. Anderson's charming demeanour would definitely be missed by many.

"Poor sod. Well, at least he's expected to make a full recovery. It really looked like he wasn't going to ever walk again. Guess he surprised us all, didn't he? Anyway, I better go before this gets cold. Save me some bangers and mash, will you? In a bit, Chef!"

Humming softly to himself, he pushed the cart along the corridors and into the hospital ward, where he didn't quite feel like singing anymore. There was always something eerie about that part of the barracks, especially when most of the staff was elsewhere. The smell alone took him right back to his childhood, much of which was spent in places like these.

He hated this place, Ringo did, but at least he'd be walking out of it in a few minutes, whereas Paul had been stuck there for nearly a week now. He felt for the lad, so visiting him and bringing him his evening tea was the least he could do for a friend, Richard reasoned. Plus, the kid was always good for a laugh. Especially those first two days, when he kept having to reintroduce himself.

Richard knew it wasn't funny, and that memory loss wasn't something he should laugh about but he couldn't help it. Hearing Paul making the same jokes each time, completely unaware that he'd made the same one the previous time was endearing in a way. Thankfully, he'd stopped forgetting Richard's name soon enough, and once the worst of Paul's headaches were subsiding, the fun of hanging around that bland room to keep the kid company for a little while made putting up with the unpleasant memories of days past a small price to pay.

So, once Ringo reached his destination, he parked the trolley in its usual spot and took the tray that was labelled Pte. J.P. McCartney with him. Someone else would have to make sure Lt. Col. R.J.C. Brown and Sgt. G.N. Lewis- Mason got theirs since he had no idea which room or ward they were in, anyway.

The first day he visited Paul, Richard had found himself faced with a problem. He needed two hands to carry the tray, which left him wondering how he was going to open the door without spilling half of the food. Eventually, he'd concluded that going in backwards, using his elbow to push down the handle and his bum to push the somewhat heavy door open was the best approach.

So, that's exactly what he did this time too, but when turned the right way 'round, he nearly dropped the tray anyway. For the next few moments, he just stood there, forgetting to close his mouth. Whatever he expected to find, it wasn't the scene he was watching. Richard awkwardly cleared his throat to announce himself, but there was no response. So he composed himself and walked further into the room.

Getting a closer look explained to him why his arrival hadn't provoked any response. Both lads were obviously fast asleep, though he still couldn't fathom why on earth John was in bed with Paul, much less why the latter was lying half on top of the former, who in turn had his arm wrapped around the younger lad. Well, in all honesty, they were sitting more than they were lying, but it still was a pretty unusual scene, considering the people in it. After all, the rumours of their rather vicious feud had been doing the rounds and even if they hadn't, Richard still would've known since John had told him.

Eager to find out what this whole cuddling thing was all about, Richard set the tray down on the bedside table, careful not to knock the water jug to the floor like he had done three days earlier. Now able to utilise his hands, he reached over Paul, careful not to touch him, and poked John in the chest. "Oi, Lennon! What are you doing here?"

He didn't want to make a lot of noise, but just nudging and whispering wasn't going to do the trick, that much was clear after a few attempts. Without thinking about it - because he wouldn't have done it otherwise - Richard grabbed the fork off Paul's tray and poked the back of John's hand with it. He probably used more force than needed, but at least it worked because John jerked awake and was looking at him blearily a second later, clearly wondering what the hell just happened.

"Richie? What are you-...? Did you just stab me?"

"What am I doing here? I think the real question is: what the hell are you doing here," he grumbled, perhaps more loudly than intended."

"Schtum! Paul's sleeping!"

"I can see that. Not everyone's as blind as you are. Now tell me," he hissed, "what you're playing at."

"Can't you tell, Richie? I'm strangling him very, very slowly," John deadpanned.

Richard rolled his eyes. "Oh, ha ha. Very, funny, son. But seriously, what's this all about? First, you put him in 'ozzy, and now yer thick as thieves all of a sudden? Assuming that's all this is."

"Who told you he's in here because of me?" John's voice rose significantly, causing Paul to stir. The next ten seconds or so, they involuntarily held their breaths and kept totally still until they were confident he wasn't waking up.

"You did, remember? After I brought him here to get stitched up," Richard whispered, resorting to gesticulation to express his waning patience.

"Oh yeah," John muttered. "I forgot about that. Why did I tell you again?"

"How should I know? I'm not a bloody mind reader, am I? Maybe your conscience was bothering you." Richard shook his head. He rather liked John, but the lad sure was strange at times. "So anyway, you still haven't said what this is supposed to be. It looks... Weird, son. Yer not... you know... Are you?"

"Not you too," John sighed. "Don't be daft, son! Fucking hell. Look, that whole feud thing is over, right? We talked it out. I hated him, he hated me, and now we don't. Is that so hard to believe, Richie?"

"No, of course not," he protested. "But it just seems so sudden. Please tell me this isn't just another one of your schemes. I reckon you've done enough damage, mate."

"What? No, of course not." There his voice went again, though he more or less kept himself in check this time. Before he went on, he took a deep breath. "We've talked, Richie. Really talked, about serious stuff, right? Turns out we've got a lot in common, and we get along great now. Would I risk being found like this," he gestured, indicating the slightly compromising situation, "if I was looking for ways to humiliate Paul?"

"Wouldn't put it past you," he shrugged in response. He decided to just accept John's declaration and lighten the mood rather than continue to question his motives. "Just... Whatever your plan is, try not to rough him up again, alright? I don't want to end up with a whole stack of blood stained towels. Just having the one is earning me enough funny looks."

"They probably seen you give a close shave, I'd get scared too if I saw that towel, knowing how you handle a knife. It's simple mathematics, son."

"There's nothing wrong with my technique, Lennon. I'll have you know, I've never cut anyone. Yet." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Oooooh, that sounds devious, please, do tell me more... Aaah shit!" For about half a second, John teetered on the edge of the bed, flailing like a madman. The next moment, he landed on the floor with a deafening thump.

"Shut the fuck up, or get the fuck out," Paul grumbled, as he pulled the covers up to his chin and folded the arm with which he just shoved John off the bed underneath his head. Richard hadn't even noticed him waking up, and it would seem that John hadn't, either. Had he just been pretending? He did seem terribly alert for someone who was very recently sleeping like the dead. "Don't you have any respect for the ailing?"

Richard just caught the cheeky wink Paul gave him, and nearly pissed himself laughing. "Looks like I owe you an apology, John, suspecting you of foul play, when all the while Paul was the conniving one."

"Ah yes," John sighed dramatically, "it's always the pretty ones you have to be afraid of. They reel you in with their charm and then they knock you down... Literally."

"Ah, you really think I'm pretty, Johnny boy?" Paul hammed it up, batting his eyelashes like a silly teenage girl. He was clearly in a better mood than he'd had all week.

John giggled, "no, but you obviously do."

Paul raised his left hand to his face and rubbed his eye, making very use to use his extended middle finger. "Ah well, somebody has to give credit where it's due."

"Is it me, or did it just start to stink in here?" John deftly avoided the punch aimed at him. "What do you say, Ringo?"

"That's not me you smell, it's your boots," Paul chuckled.

"Alright lads, I've seen and heard enough. I'm off to the mess for some scran. Are you coming, John?"

"Don't mind if I do," the lad nodded. "I'm starving!"

Ringo never did find out why that remark reduced Paul and John to utter hysterics, and he suspected he didn't want to know either. It was bad enough that he had a terrible feeling that those two becoming friends would turn out to be an even bigger source of trouble than their former quarrel ever had...


	11. I'm So Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After making my edits, I didn't proofread this chapter, so it's possible there still are some goofs in here. I'll get to fixing them later. Please leave a comment to tell me what you think of the story!

**22 January 1961**

 

**John**

 

"Eh up, John. Alright?"

At first, John barely registered the casual greeting and kept reading, giving merely an inarticulate hum in reply. It wasn't until he reached the next paragraph that it dawned on him who'd been talking. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he looked up at Paul, whose smile was wide enough to brighten the glum, rainy January Sunday.

"Paul! Sorry mate, didn't expect you back yet. They grew sick of you then, did they?"

"Yeah, they booted me an hour ago. I was starting to think they'd keep me forever. I swear, one more day and I would've gone mad." He looked around the room a bit and then sat down on the foot of John's bed. "So, what'd I miss?"

John put down his book and grinned, "you've been gone for less than three weeks, son, not three bloody years. What possibly could have happened?"

"Oh I don't know," Paul said quasi-seriously, "the could've decided to allow girls into the army, a meteor could've destroyed the place, they could've decided to abandon the green and make everything orange, anything could've happened in the time I was away, you know."

"Oh, you mean those sorts of things," John laughed. "Well, we've all been replaced by Martians, but other than that everything's pretty much the same."

"See, I thought something curious was going on," the younger lad nodded. "Good thing I asked then, isn't it? Certainly explains all the prodding and probing they've done over the past weeks." He picked up the book John had been reading, leafed through it, read a few bits here and there, and then put it back down. "Anyway, great day for a brew an' a long sit-down, isn't it?"

"Or a game of cards," John nodded. "I was just going over to dorm A to play a few hands with the lads."

"The lads?"

"Richie and Neil. We ran into each other at breakfast a fortnight ago and decided to found a new tradition: Scouse Sundays. Yer welcome to join the S.S. if you want. We could use a fourth man. Makes it more interesting, right?"

"The S.S.?" Paul snorted loudly at the abbreviation. "Why do I get the sense you came up with that?"

"Confirmation bias, son. It's just yer bad opinion of me rearing its ugly head. So, are you joining?"

Paul was on his feet even before John could finish his sentence. "Don't mind if I do, Mein Fuhrer..."

"That's more like it," John cackled, as he playfully shoved Paul in the direction of the door. "I foresee a bright future in the S.S. for you."

~*~

"Good morning, fellows!" John's exaggeratedly posh, upper-class accent cracked was met with laughter: he nearly always found a grateful audience in them. Neil and Ringo were sat on the floor of dormitory A, which was right next to John and Paul's, and they had already played a few hands by the looks of things. Ringo, who seemed to be on his customary winning streak, was just shuffling the deck of cards, looking rather serious about it.

"Everyone, say hi to Paul. He'll be joining our barmy bunch of Merseyside misfits. Paul, these two meffs are Ringo and Nell."

"Blimey, thanks for the introduction, John. I have never known who these blokes were if it weren't for you," Paul chuckled.

"Yeah," Richie chimed in, "it isn't as if you've ever seen me and him in the same room together or anything like that. Oh wait, you have."

Neil laughed loudly at John's rude gesture until he seemed to realise something. "Hang on, did I miss something? Last time I checked, you two were mortal enemies."

"Whatever are you on about, Nell? We're thick as thieves, Macca and me, see?" To underline his point, John threw an arm around Paul's shoulder and pulled him closer in a jovial gesture which nearly saw the poor bugger lose his balance. Ignoring the muttered cheek coming from his left, John produced one of his infamous grins. Harly anyone ever bothered contradicting him after one of those, since they knew he wasn't going to take them seriously anyway.

Neil had clearly learnt that lesson too. Shaking his head, he moved back a bit, creating enough space on either side of him for someone to sit, deciding to ignore John's antics in favour of focusing on Paul.  
"Good to see you up and about, mate. Got a clean bill of health then, did you?"

"Just got cleared, yeah", Paul nodded whilst he proceeded to sit down between Ringo and Neil. Across from him, John did the same, folding himself into one of his favourite postures. Once again, he noticed that Paul's interpretation of sitting cross-legged meant his knees were sticking up. It didn't look very comfortable but then again, most people couldn't understand how John didn't dislocate his hips when he sat the way he did, either. It was just another oddity they had in common, it seemed.

In the meantime, the juniors of the group were chinwagging about things John knew nothing about, and he guessed Ringo didn't have a clue either. It struck him as somewhat rude. Then again, John reckoned he might learn something new so he chose to listen in, rather than shut them up.

"Mike still gorra cob on about yer missin' his birthday?"

Paul nodded and helped himself to some of the crisps Neil offered him. "Yeah, I just spoke to him. Cheers for ringing him, by the way. Da' said he tried to explain I didn't have access to a phone, but you know Mikey." He paused a moment to lick the salt off his fingers and then shrugged. "Probably thinks this is just Scout camp for grownups or something. He'll get over it."

"He'll have to, won't he? It's probably just a distraction to hide how worried he's been." Neil passed the bag over to Ringo before addressing Paul again, who had hummed an acknowledgement in reply to Neil's assessment. "I got a letter from George, by the way. Well. More like a belated Christmas card, really. Did you know he quit school?"

"Yeah, he told me at New Year's, when we hung out. Said he had an apprenticeship at Blacklers or something? Can't recall which department, but he didn't sound too excited about it." He reached into the bag and grabbed another handful of crisps before John decided he was being neglected and confiscated the packet. At least that shut Paul and Neil up long enough for Richie to intervene.

"Alright lads, he chuckled, tugging the bag out of John's hands and giving it back to its rightful owner, "we get the message: you two have a history. No need to rub it in, you know. Can we start the game now?"

"What he said," John nodded absentmindedly.

Seeing how much more relaxed Paul was around Neil than he was with him, kind of bothered John. Of course, he was aware that his friendship with the lad was still very new, but he thought of Paul as one of his best mates now, and he would have thought the sentiment would have been echoed. Frankly, he felt jealous of Neil for knowing Paul so much better.

His reverie was interrupted by a slap on the back from Ringo. "Ready to show those two college puddin's how real men play cards, Johnny?"

John flashed a toothy grin. "Sounds like a plan, Rich. Prepare to lose, kids."

"Hear, hear." Ringo showed off one of his flashy shuffle tricks and started dealing the cards. "Alright lads, the rules are as follows: you play one card, any card, and if someone thinks you're wrong, they can penalise you for it. Anything goes, as long as it's good for a laugh. Does everyone understand?"

Everyone did, and so the game began. Playing for stakes was very much forbidden, so the four Liverpudlians had no choice but to be very covert about the cigarettes that were constantly meeting a new owner. Of course, the scoring system was as arbitrary as the game itself, so they could hardly be accused of gambling.

The penalty system was even more random. During the first round or two, things were fairly benign: telling someone on the verge of winning to take three cards or to skip a turn, that sort of thing. However, by the time the foursome was halfway through the fifth round, everything had been dialled up several notches: the noise they produced, the stakes, and most definitely the penalties. Whilst Neil was clutching well over twenty cards and Ringo had somehow ended up wearing his socks over his ears, Paul was on the verge of achieving his first win when he made a crucial mistake and John was the lucky bastard who noticed the slip-up first.

"Foul!" He yelled so loudly, people halfway across the dorm turned their heads to see what the uproar was all about. "You can't play that one. Jack of clubs and Queen of hearts don't go together."

"Says who?"

"Me," John declared. He scratched his chin for a second as he thought of a suiting penalty. It had to be bad enough to make sure Paul no longer stood a chance at winning, but not so harsh that the others would suspect he was close to breaking Richie's winning streak. "Take ten cards and skip three turns."

"Give him a break, mate. It's only his first time playing," Ringo muttered, casually rearranging his cards.

"Yeah," Paul exclaimed, "what he said."

John giggled deviously. "Alright then, take twenty cards, and... Erm... Give us a kiss."

"Yer wha'?!" Between Neil's spontaneous snort and Ringo's dramatic sigh, Paul's indignant reply nearly went unnoticed. Thankfully, John was paying close attention to see how he'd reply in comparison to the other two, who'd already been properly introduced to the creativity of John's penalties. "What kind of penalty is that?"

"A damn good one, son. Now pay up, or I'll have you skip five turns. Or," he teased, "are you scared?"

"Of you? As if!" And as Neil and Richard clutched their sides laughing, Paul leant over and gave John a noisy smacker on the lips. "There, how's that?"

"That was brilliant," Neil howled, laughing so hard he nearly turned blue. "You should see yer face, John. Talk about calling yer bluff!"

John was more than a little perplexed. He didn't think his joke would backfire like that. Neil hadn't done it a fortnight ago; he'd managed to blackmail his way out of it. He hadn't tried it on Richie yet, mainly because it wouldn't make him bat so much as an eye. Somehow, John expected Paul to either find a way around it or come up with a creative solution. This, he hadn't foreseen. Still, he wouldn't be John Winston Lennon if he didn't know how to respond. "Not bad son, but I've had better. Ye might want to work on that."

"Alright," Paul deadpanned, "you want me to start now, or save it for another day?"

"Let me get back to you on that," John grumbled, biting back a fit of giggles. "You still have to take those cards, you cagey bastard."

From then on, things only got progressively worse. At some point, Ringo was holding nearly a full deck of cards after being penalised ruthlessly by the others. Not for playing the wrong cards, but as payback for giving them short hair. He, in turn, managed to cheat the others out of nearly their entire stash of cigarettes by abusing his status as senior group member and threatening to shave them all completely bald next time they came in for a haircut. Eventually, thanks to some of the other blokes in the dorm and their increasingly outrageous suggestions, penalising each other had become more like a game of truth or dare than anything else. John was just about to suggest Neil ought to do an impression of a drunken hen when Ringo interrupted him.

"Lads, isn't that one meant for you?" He indicated the bugle call that echoed across the barracks.

"Ah, shit, is it that late already?" Neil stumbled to his feet and nearly tripped over Paul. One of his penalties was to wear his tie over his eyes like a blindfold, and he hadn't yet been allowed to take it off.

"What are you talking about?" Paul looked completely flummoxed as he moved out of Neil's path.

John just grunted, "Assault course."

"Wasn't that three weeks ago?" Paul frowned, visibly alarmed when he addressed John. If he didn't know any better, John would have thought Paul was panicking or something. "I know that was three weeks ago; it was the day I threw up on you. It can't be today... It's Sunday, for fuck's sake!"

"As if they care what day it is," Neil groused. He finally seemed to have figured out that removing the blindfold would be practical, and he was frantically tugging at the wrong end of the tie. "The one yer talking about got cancelled when we got there for safety reasons. I mean, everything was frozen, so they made us march twenty miles, instead. We've known it was rescheduled for today for at least a week, mate."

"Maybe you have, but I wasn't here, so how should I know that?" Paul looked out the window at the steady drizzle that hadn't stopped for days, except when it was replaced by heavy downpour that could drench someone to the skin within seconds. "Bloody hell, it'll be one big pile of mud!"

"Welcome back mate," Neil guffawed. He had managed to wrangle off his tie and was now fumbling with the lock of the wardrobe behind him, which wouldn't open since it wasn't his.

Seconds later, Ringo's calm voice put an end to the frantic running around like headless chickens by flatly stating, "you ladies might want to quit yer nattering and start hurryin'. You've only got fifteen minutes to assemble." He'd barely finished speaking when Paul and John were on their way out the door whilst a red-eared Neil found his own wardrobe after muttering an apology at his neighbour.

John had run about twenty feet when he turned on his heels, sprinted back, and grabbed most of the cigarettes he and Paul had acquired. "Sorry la', he told a rather surprised-looking Ringo, "we're probably going to want these."

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

"McCartney, it's called a belly crawl, get your arse down!"

Paul cursed under his breath and pressed his midsection as close to the ground as he could so that his bottom wasn't touching the wires anymore. Crawling on his stomach wasn't his favourite element of the assault course on a good day, but now that the ground was reduced to thick, heavy mud which made every inch feel like a mile, he despised it even more. The scathing comments the unfamiliar, American officer had been making all afternoon didn't help matters much.

He had been particularly annoyed at the condescending 'what are you waiting for, flowers and a date?' when he found himself wondering how in the world he was going to get a bloke six inches taller and at least five stone heavier than him onto his shoulders, let alone carry him across the slippery, 150-yard track. He'd managed, partially because Dan, one-half of the Australian twins he'd befriended, was a good sport about it. But that had also been when he realised he had made a huge mistake by insisting on being cleared for duty. He wasn't ready, not by a long shot, and he was paying dearly for it. The worst part of that realisation was that by then, he hadn't even finished half of the course yet.

Alongside him, John wasn't looking too pleased, either. He, too, had been told to 'keep his fat backside down' which obviously hit a nerve with John, who'd sometimes call himself fat even though nothing could be farther from the truth. He probably wouldn't even have minded as much if the American hadn't been more than a little corpulent.

Thankfully, the end was in sight. They only had to crawl a few more feet after which they'd be able to catch their breath for a bit until the next obstacle. After that, only five more to tackle before they'd be able to return to the barracks. Determined to make the best of it, Paul pushed back against the dirt as hard as he could, and at long last, he cleared the low barbed wire. Gasping for air, he grabbed the hand John offered him and allowed himself to be pulled up.

"Alright, Macca?"

Paul stretched his back and willed himself to breathe more calmly. "Yeah, I'm okay, ta'. That fat wap has some nerve commenting on your weight, John. He couldn't fit under those wires if he wanted to. Fucking Yank!"

"That's officers for ya, mate. They conveniently forget they started at the bottom too." John took off his glasses and poured some water over them to wash off the mud, but not before taking several gulps with such eagerness, Paul could see some of the water running down John's chin. "Just our luck to be sorted in that wanker's team, isn't it?"

"Is right! What's he doing here anyway?"

John scrutinised the result of his attempts at cleaning his glasses. He didn't look too pleased, and the lenses definitely weren't clear, but he put them back on anyway.

"Apart from telling us we're a bunch of ninnies and all that? Fuck if I know. Just showed up the other day. I hope he doesn't plan on stayin'. Anyway, come'ead mate, we're nearly done."

John picked up the pace with Paul struggling to keep up, and caught up with their team members. The next obstacle was looming nearby: a series of balance beams. Given the sheer weight of the muck that was weighing him down, Paul could only hope he'd make it across alright. But he was mostly wondering how John would fare, given that he was blind as a bat without his glasses and even though he was wearing them now, he couldn't see much through them, if the way he constantly veered off course was any indication. Just when he was breathing a sigh of relief, thinking they both made it across the treacherous logs and blocks in one piece, John tripped. Paul could hear him cursing loudly, but he'd got up and trudged on before anyone could check if he was okay.

The long jump went alright, all things considering. Paul had expected to land in the middle of the pond they had to cross but as it turned out, he managed to make it about three-quarters of the way to the other side. His feet weren't any less wet for it, but he did take solace in the fact that he jumped farther than about half of his mates. And at least it washed the mud off his boots, if only for five seconds.

The rope swing was the first indication that something was up with John. He couldn't only hear him hissing like an angry cat, his grimace indicated he was in pain as well. Still, he was soldiering on without pausing even for a moment, so Paul reckoned it was probably nothing serious. It wasn't until the final obstacle, the high wall, that he became convinced John was injured.

This was one of John's favourite obstacles, for some reason. Probably because he was bloody good at it, Paul mused. Normally, he'd pull himself up and over as if it was nothing, but now John couldn't make it all the way up on his own. Paul remained up there for a little while longer to get his bearings. Slowly shaking his head, he remembered how John had once tried to push him off the eight-foot wall. Things sure had changed, he thought, as he eventually jumped off the other side and hurried to catch up with John, who had already crossed the finish line.

"John, wait a second." Paul grabbed John's shoulder and caught his breath. "Fucking hell, that was brutal. Have you ever been this knackered? Because I haven't."

"Don't think I have, no." He pointed in the direction of a low wall. "Let's sit over there."

They found a spot where the wind wasn't too harsh, and that's when Paul finally noticed why John had been unable to do as well on the last few obstacles as he usually did. "Hey John, your wrist is bleeding, mate."

"Yeah, I know. Scraped it when I came off that beam, didn't I? I think it's sprained. Hurts like hell, anyway."

"Let me see." Paul took his water bottle and rinsed the somewhat ragged wound. Without the mud, he could clearly see John's wrist was swollen and turning purple. "Looks like more than a sprain, mate. Could be broken, you know."

"Now yer just overreacting, Macca. It'll be fine. I can move my fingers an' all, see?"

"Fine, then. But I'm gonna wrap it up anyway." He rummaged through his bag and dug up his first aid pack. "Damn, there isn't any antiseptic in here. Have you got any in yours?"

"Beats me, mate. I didn't bring mine. It's not like they're going to check to see if we packed every last thing, are they? Look, it's gonna get dirty again anyway. I'm filthy and soaked, in case you haven't noticed. Just use a field dressing or something, or forget about it for all I care. It's not important, Paul."

"What kind of nonsense is that? Of course, it's important. But alright, I'll just wing it then. Hold your hand straight, alright?"

John cursed loudly when the compression bandage was applied to his arm. "Sorry mate, this has to be tight or it won't be of any help," Paul apologised.

"No worries. Where'd you learn all this, anyway?"

Without taking his eyes off what he was doing, Paul explained, "the Boy Scouts mostly, but mum showed Mike and me some stuff too. - Keep that wrist straight, or I'll do it for you, Lennon! - I used to use Mike as my personal guinea pig, especially when he was being a bit of a shit. So," he chuckled, "it's no surprise I got a lot of practice. Once, I bandaged nearly every part of him. Took mum half an hour to get him unwrapped."

"Didn't he protest?"

"I'm sure he would have," Paul giggled, remembering that particular afternoon quite vividly, "if I hadn't wrapped up his head first. He couldn't say a word and by the time I was done, he couldn't move a finger. Had no trouble getting that badge, though."

John laughed loudly. "Well, thanks for shitty kid brothers, then."

"True, that." Paul wrapped the bandage one last time around John's hand and was just leading it back towards the clip that would keep everything in place when Neil dropped by.

"Hey, lads, what's so funny?" He crashed down next to John, vigorously scratching his head when the sight of his neighbour made his hand freeze mid-air. "Bloody hell John, what happened to your hand?"

"Came off the balance beam, Nell. Didn't you see? But thanks to nurse Paul here," he jested as he bent and stretched his fingers a few times, "I'll be right as rain. Feels much better, Macca. Thanks."

Picking up the water bottle he'd left on the wall, Paul sat down on John's other side and guzzled down most of the water he had left. Now that he'd sat still for a few minutes, the true extent of his exhaustion was making itself known. Basically, it hurt like hell. "No worries. Just have it looked at when we get back, alright?"

"Yes, mum."

Neil guffawed, "So you finally got to practice on a real patient then, eh? No need to abuse innocent people with it anymore then, meaning myself of course."

"He got you too then, did he? At least he's got something to show for it," John muttered. "Hey, what do you say we head on over to the bus, right? The sooner we're back, the better. I'm dying for a hot shower and some scran."

"Me too," Neil groaned. "I wouldn't be surprised if there's mud all the way behind my balls!"

No matter how miserable Paul felt, he couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Nobody wants to know about your balls, Neil."

"Speak for yerself, son. I couldn't be more intrigued," John jested.

The sorry state of Neil's muddy bollocks kept them entertained all the way to where they had got off the bus earlier that day, but when they rounded the last bend, the smiles abruptly fell from their faces.

"Where are the buses?" John obviously wasn't the only one asking himself that question. The three of them were amongst the last to arrive at the parking lot and judging by the various excitable voices, the absence of transport had everyone stumped. The men weren't left to guess what was going on for long.

"Shun! Platoon, right dress!"

Slightly less organised than usual, the men formed lines as instructed and stood squad, waiting for further commands. To Paul's surprise - and annoyance - it wasn't the Badge or one of the other usual officers that proceeded to tell them what to do, but the American Major.

"Alright gentlemen, to conclude today's exercise, you will march back to Aldershot. We leave in five, so find your squad and stand by for orders. Fall out!"

Few people spoke when they scattered. Most of the trainees were visibly worn out. Some looked like they might fall asleep where they stood, or fall over out of sheer exhaustion. Nobody looked happy to be walking nine more miles after having completed the gruelling obstacle course, which in itself covered a distance of three miles, not counting the sixteen obstacles.

As for Paul, he just didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or faint. All he knew was that it would take nothing short of a miracle for him to make it back to base on foot. For a minute or two, he wondered if he should find the Sergeant Major and tell the truth about his condition. In the end, he decided against it, mostly because he doubted it'd make much difference. Trying his best to pull himself together and block out the crippling exhaustion, he followed John to the group of lads that shared dorm B with them and hoped for the best.

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

'Only six and a half more miles... Only six more miles... Only five and a half more miles...'

John's feet were killing him, his uniform weighed about a metric tonne, and he was cold all the way through to his bones. Counting down the miles in his head was basically all he could do keep from falling over and having a kip right there on the road. Going by the way someone would fall out of step every so often, he wasn't the only one hanging by a thread. But it wasn't until he looked to the right that he realised he was probably doing a lot better than some, and definitely loads better than Paul, who was more or less in step, but his posture was worlds from what the army would consider appropriate. His shoulders were hunched, and instead of facing forward, his head was hanging low.

Ignoring protocol, John whispered, "Hey, are you alright?"

Paul said nothing, he just shook his head once. Not much of his face was visible given his posture and the mud stains, but John could tell he looked miserable.

"Too much, too soon, eh?" Paul's nod was barely visible, but it spoke volumes. "Sorry mate, it's all my fault. If I hadn't roughed you up..."

"Please just forget about that, okay?" His voice sounded terribly small, and it was clear he tried to speak as little as possible. This behaviour worried John. There had been times when Paul hadn't wanted to talk to him, but now it seemed like he simply couldn't find the energy for it. If it had been anyone else, John wouldn't have paid it any mind. But this was Paul, the bloke who always put on a brave face and pretended to be fine, no matter how bad a state he was in. This was too out of character to remain unnoticed.

He left Paul alone for a while whilst his mind was churning. After a while of reliving the seemingly random memories of the previous weeks, something suddenly hit him: six weeks. It was something Paul had said that day he stole those biscuits. 'Could be up to six weeks, they said.' That had been his reply when John asked how long they were going to make Paul stay in bed. But here he was, barely a fortnight later, cleared for duty.

Unless... He wasn't. Because, and John remembered it clearly, he had also said he'd never agree to stay cooped up that long. What if he had tricked the doctors into believing he was fully recovered by pretending to feel better than he actually did? John knew how convincing that act was; it had fooled him more than once when their little war was still on. Could it be that he should still be in hospital, or at the very least still resting? Something told him Paul was too proud to admit it if he asked, but it was also obvious he wouldn't be able to keep marching in formation for five and a quarter more miles.

He pondered his options for a bit, and pretty much decided he'd have to do something – anything – to improve the situation when the Badge's voice boomed, "Squad, halt! Break off!" Going by the collective sigh of relief going through the ranks, everyone was grateful to get a break. John decided to use the opportunity to talk to their Warrant Officer.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Permission granted, Private."

John took a deep breath, and before he lost his nerve, he blurted out, "Sir, I think you should abandon the march." It was not nearly as succinct as he had hoped it would be, but it would have to do.

"You are in no position to even suggest a change of orders, Private." The officer's eyebrows were nearly as high as Paul's now.

"Yes I know, but..." He couldn't hold it in anymore. "It's Paul, sir. McCartney - He's not doing well."

"He has been cleared for duty," the Badge bluntly stated, his voice bearing enough of that authority he used to impress the group to tell John he was treading on thin ice by arguing. "He will not receive special treatment for having recently been ill. We will pause here for a little while and then we will continue the march, McCartney included."

John knew he was playing with fire. He was on probation, after all. And yet, now that he'd taken that leap, he wasn't going to give up just yet. "I have reason to believe he shouldn't have been released from hospital, sir. He's really not well at all." In a last-ditch effort to make his case, he added, "I'm not saying it just for him, sir. We're all knackered. We're barely keeping formation as it is."

"This is the Army, Private Lennon, pushing one's physical and mental boundaries is part of the training. It's not supposed to be easy." The man still sounded unforgiving, but for a brief instance, John thought he saw something resembling humanity flickering in those steely, admonishing eyes.

"I know that, sir. But please, will you just come with me and see for yourself?" Desperate to make his point, he asked, "doesn't the Army care about the health of its soldiers, sir?"

"Careful, Private, that's getting very close to insubordination. I think I need hardly remind you how close you are to being dismissed." Convinced he wasn't going to be able to change the man's mind, John lowered his gaze and forced himself to shut the fuck up before he'd say something he'd regret whilst waiting for the order to bugger off. To his surprise, he heard the Badge sigh ever so quietly before he addressed John again. "However, taking into consideration who your concern is for and your previous attitude towards Private McCartney, I will give you the benefit of the doubt and discuss matters with him."

It took John a while to find Paul, who had isolated himself from the group - another red flag - and was sat on the side of the road with his forehead on his arms, which he had crossed over his knees just like that day when John had found him behind the library. He stood back whilst Sergeant Major Martin crouched down before Paul and watched the interaction between the Badge and his friend with growing anxiety. He had no idea what they were saying - all he could tell was that Paul still wasn't very communicative, but at least it looked like the situation was being taken seriously. Eventually, He saw Paul nod in reply of something, after which he received a firm, almost fatherly pat on the shoulder before approaching John.

"You did well to inform me, Private. Your assessment was correct. However, there isn't much I can do since we don't carry the equipment needed to contact the base and I'm not leaving any of my men behind. McCartney has agreed to walk back. In light of recent events, I believe it would be fitting for you to have the duty of helping him to the best of your ability. Should he be unable to go on, you will inform me forthwith. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. And Private," the badge continued, sounding friendlier than John had ever heard him, "you've redeemed yourself today. Consider your probation lifted but I must warn you to never question authority again or you will be dismissed. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As much as it was a relief to know he wasn't about to get kicked out anymore, John couldn't say he felt completely satisfied by the outcome. After all, they still had to walk back to the barracks, even if it was a lot more relaxed from then on. Even with help, it was still obvious Paul struggled to put one foot in front of the other. He didn't want to be helped at all, initially, but once he saw several of their friends were being held upright by their friends as well, he reluctantly put his hand on John's shoulder and allowed him to wrap an arm around his waist.

Once the group approached the barracks gates, much of the fatigue seemed to fall off the majority of the men. Even Paul became a lot more lively and walked the remaining half mile or so without needing any support. He even managed some giggles when John not only announced the mud had found its way into his pants but went so far as to demonstrate it by showing his naked bum to everyone in the shower room. Where he got the energy for his demented little dance, John didn't know. It had just seemed like the right thing to do and frankly, if he hadn't found a reason to laugh, he supposed he probably would have broken down crying from sheer exhaustion. Clearly, he wasn't the only one, since the overall atmosphere was very subdued.

After he'd had his shower, John stumbled to the mess for a few bites to eat, only to find he was too tired to properly lift a fork, so he'd given up on that plan nearly instantly. It wasn't much later that he returned from the infirmary where his wrist was cleaned and redressed after being diagnosed with a moderate sprain. John was eager to tell Paul the doctor had been impressed by the excellent first aid, thinking it might make him feel better. There was just one tiny problem with that plan: by the time John got back to the dorm, Paul was sprawled face-down on his bed wearing nothing but his Y-fronts, completely dead to the world.

Deciding to let him sleep, John made himself comfortable on his bunk and picked up the book he had been reading when Paul turned up that morning: James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl. It was something John had found in the library. He'd never heard of the author before but he enjoyed the quirkiness of the story. When he went over the same paragraph four times without remembering what he'd read, John listened to the conversations that went on around him for awhile, which mostly consisted of very original ways to describe how each man felt about the strange Yank who had made their day so much more difficult. His shameless eavesdropping even taught John a few new expletives, which was saying a lot because he already knew so many. But out of all the random bits of conversation, one thing in particular caught his attention.

"Hey boys, look at McCartney." John looked up to see a bloke called Sam Thompson gesture at Paul as he walked past him on his way back from the showers. He was just about ready to knock someone's teeth out in case they would make fun of Paul, but he needn't bother. "That right there is someone who has the right idea, lads."

He wasn't wrong, John thought, as he watched how Sam crawled into his own bed and nearly instantly stopped moving. Looking around the dorm, he noticed three other guys were just lying down for a kip too, and a few others appeared to be seriously considering it. Clueless about how horrible the past few hours had been for the daft sod, yes. But definitely not wrong. In fact, he himself was thinking about following Paul's example too, as soon as he'd finish his chapter, he mused as he found his place and focused on the story.

John never found out what happened after the centipede bit through the peach's stem because before he could get that far, his book dropped to the floor and he was out for the count.


	12. It's All Too Much

**Paul**

 

What time was it? When had he even crawled into bed? Paul hadn't the foggiest. All he could recall was sitting down to get dressed after that long, hot shower. He'd leant on his elbow to grab his socks, and the next thing he knew was waking up just now. How long ago that was, was a mystery but he realised several hours had to have passed since then because it was dark. The kind of darkness pitch-black darkness that only existed in the deepest depths of a moonless night. And quiet. Well, except for someone sounding like he was trying to singlehandedly eradicate every last tree in the world. But other than that, it was really quite peaceful. A steady downpour was drumming a soft rhythm on the roof and windows, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of distant thunder: the perfect white noise to lull him back into a deep slumber. No doubt, it would have done just that if the chatter of the rain hadn't made Paul keenly aware of his full bladder.

Paul knew he had to go sometime soon. There was just one issue with that: he had no desire whatsoever to get up. He tried to distract himself by focusing on something else, which was easier said than done. The only noticeable thing was the odd pose in which he'd been sleeping, which ever so slowly became more apparent. The moment he woke up, his body had still been very much asleep: that sense of being disembodied was one of the best feelings in the world, Paul thought. It was such an utter state of relaxation, and just perfect for not just drifting off to sleep, but being consciously aware of the brain slowly powering down. It allowed for dreams to come before sleep did, and he loved that. But over the past minutes, his body had woken up and he'd come to the conclusion that he wasn't terribly comfortable with his limbs arranged the way they were.

It would seem his left foot was not just sticking over the bottom edge of the mattress - and out from under the covers, there was also something lumpy lodged underneath his shin. Meanwhile, his other leg was pulled up high, so that his right foot hooked behind his left knee. And then there were his arms, of course. His right arm felt rather cold, which wasn't strange considering the fact that it was dangling over the edge of the bed, fingertips just brushing the floor. His left hand felt somewhat numb but at least it was warm, being tucked underneath his stomach and all. In a nutshell, he was basically partially hanging off the bed rather than neatly tucked into it. His back wasn't too pleased with the situation and yet, he still felt too lazy to move. Despite the discomfort, Paul would have been happy to just stay like that and go right back to sleep.

Which he would have, except for having to take a piss. Urgently.

Suppressing a heartfelt groan, Paul admitted defeat and forced himself into a sitting position, his body loudly protesting every single move. Standing up was even more painful. He'd reckoned he'd be sore but the way muscles he didn't even knew he had, protested, almost made Paul feel like an octogenarian with a severe case of arthritis rather than a healthy eighteen-year-old. Well, relatively healthy anyway, thanks to his own stupidity. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the stiffness felt a lot like the result of the cold creeping into his bones. Since he had just got out from under a blanket, he shrugged the thought off. After all: Paul had bigger problems to focus on, such as making the trek to the loo. It was only a few dozen yards but in his current state, it felt more like a mile-long walk. If one could even call it walking. Limping would have been a more accurate description.

Between the harsh fluorescent light of the lav, the annoyingly long time it took for his bladder to be empty, and an unexpected, violent roll of thunder which made him jump, Paul was wide awake by the time he finished washing his hands and reached for some paper towels. Once again reminded how frustrating it was to still have damp hands even after using three of the flimsy tissues, Paul gave up on the fruitless effort and took a moment to scrutinise his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Basically, he looked like utter crap. He rubbed his face and as he did so, the dark shadow covering his jaw scratched the palms of his hands.

The unforgiving light served as a stern reminder of his stupidity. He looked like a corpse and an exhausted one at that. in the weeks passed, the colour had gradually returned to his face but now, all of that progress appeared to have been undone. The paleness of his skin made his eyes look even bigger and droopier than usual. The various freckles and birthmarks on his face and neck didn't blend in with his wan complexion and stood out like a sore thumb, as did the dark circles underneath his eyes. Even the scar on his head seemed to mock his stubborn pride. He couldn't see it, it was too far back for that, but he could sure feel it nagging.

Promising himself he'd from then on honour the doctors' advice instead of defying it, Paul stumbled back to bed. It wasn't until that moment that he became aware of a few things. He had, in the back of his mind, realised he was missing something and it occurred to him just then that what was lacking, were clothes. It was January, and he was only wearing a pair of pants. No T- shirt, no bottoms, just briefs and nothing else. It certainly explained the goose pimples that had erupted all over his body. The way his clothes were scattered about his bed and the floor around it told him he must have fallen asleep before he could even put on his socks. But that wasn't the only thing he'd neglected to do: he realised he had, indeed, nodded off without any covers because the blanket he woke up under wasn't his. It was still tightly tucked around the thin mattress, albeit slightly ruffled due to him moving about in his sleep.

A quick glance to his right taught Paul that he had to have been tucked in by none other than John, whose only cover consisted of a white cotton sheet. A socked foot stuck out from underneath, and John appeared to be wearing two layers of T-shirts. Clearly, the daft sod had made a conscious decision to put Paul's comfort above his own. Paul wondered why. After all, he hadn't done anything to deserve such a sacrifice though he was grateful for the gesture. After all, how much worse would he have felt if John hadn't shown such kindness?

No longer in need of it, Paul grabbed the blanket and returned it to its rightful owner, thinking he'd just cover John up as much as possible and then quickly crawl back into bed before the cold would start to creep into his bones again. It didn't quite work out as planned.

Just as he was draping the blanket across John's shoulders, the older lad moved. His subconscious must have noticed the increase in warmth, because his hand came up in a gesture that suggested he was going to pull the covers up, and by doing so it brushed against Paul's. Still sleeping, John took hold of Paul's hand before he had the chance to move away, and pulled it close to his chest, much like one would hug a teddy bear, or... well, Paul preferred not to allow his mind to wander in that direction. As touching - and slightly embarrassing - as it was, it left Paul in a bit of a pickle. Not only were his sore muscles loudly protesting the distorted pose, he also wanted to get back into the warmth and comfort of his bed.

"Alright, Johnny," Paul whispered, trying in vain to extract himself from John's death grip. "You've got to let go of my hand now, yeah?" All he achieved with that, was John mumbling a few inarticulate words which could've meant anything. His grip hadn't loosened at all. If anything, it had tightened. It'd be pins and needles if he couldn't escape soon, but Paul didn't want to just yank himself free and wake up John. Who knew what kind of a row that would start.

Hoping that one wouldn't end up being held hostage as well, Paul risked losing his balance by ever so gently using his free hand to peel away John's fingers, which was easier said than done, since the moment he moved onto the next one, the first would snap firmly back into place. It was hopeless, and for a moment Paul feared he'd have to spend the rest of the night right there until somehow, John's subconscious must've noticed there was something else to grab. In the brief instant it took for John to release one, and grab a the other hand, Paul managed to move out of his reach, nearly falling flat on his arse in the process.

John whimpered softly at the loss, but a few seconds later, he settled for clutching the corner of his blanket instead. Paul couldn't help but smile as he gathered his clothes and piled them onto his foot locker. A quick glance told him John was in the process of rolling onto his back, meaning he'd probably start to snore soon. Shivering lightly, Paul climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Perhaps, he mused, the question of why John took care of him had been answered in that brief moment: underneath his tough- as-nails bravado, he harboured a soft, vulnerable side. Deep down, he'd already known John was really just a gentle soul in need of love and affection, and this was just another confirmation of that. And with that epiphany in mind, Paul once again drifted off to sleep.

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

A deafening crack of thunder rudely jerked John from his dreams. He was awake, but that was about it. Even after sleeping for the better part of the last twelve hours, he still felt knackered. Then again, it had been a somewhat busy night...

He'd woken up somewhere around midnight, at which time he was the only one not sleeping. Paul had turned around and was more or less lying on his side, with his arms and legs pointing in every possible direction. It didn't look comfortable to John at all, yet it was obvious he had slept non-stop from the moment he had collapsed. It was an easy conclusion to reach: he was still lying on top of the covers, and the clothes he apparently had meant to put on were still littering the bottom half of the bed - except for the things he kicked off whilst tossing about.

John would've been happy to turn around and get back to sleep, but of course, his damn conscience acted up when he saw and heard the scarcely clad lad was shivering continuously. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, knowing his friend was cold - especially after what he went through that day - kept him from being able to fall back asleep. His attempts at waking Paul up didn't go anywhere. Normally, it was easy enough to rouse him since Paul seemed to be a light sleeper. Clearly, he had to be dead tired in order to sleep this deeply.

Wondering when the hell he had become such a bleeding heart, John had pulled his own blanket off his bed and spread it over Paul, covering as much as he could which was easier said than done. In the end, his head, one arm, and a foot were still sticking out, but the rest of him was covered and it hadn't taken long for Paul to stop chattering his teeth. After that, it was John's turn to be cold, but after donning socks and an extra T-shirt, he finally managed to drift off again for a few hours until something roused him.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was like a sense of deja-vu. A vague memory, or perhaps the memory of a dream of him holding someone's hand, and that someone talking to him. It was all a bit of a blur and the details were rather muddled. For one, the voice he seemed to remember was Paul's, which didn't make any sense at all. He decided the events of the day had just turned into the weirdest dream he ever had and banished the confusing imagery from his head, focusing instead on waking up enough to be able to drag himself to the bog.

It was then, halfway through waking up, that John discovered he was lying underneath the blanket he'd sacrificed earlier, and Paul was fast asleep in bed, rather than just on it. Still mostly naked, going by his bare shoulders, but he wasn't shivering anymore. 'At least I'm not the only soft lad here,' John had thought, failing to suppress a smile.

Far too soon for his liking, it was the morning. It had to be because even though it was rather dark outside, the colour of the sky suggested dawn was imminent. Not that it would make much difference; the black rain clouds would likely obscure most of the daylight. Every so often, the dormitory would light up under a blinding flash of lightning, which then would be followed up by a sharp crack or a rumbling roll of thunder. It was plain to see two separate lightning storms were having it out over Aldershot, and neither was close to petering out or moving away.

Quite the contrary it would seem, as a loud clattering noise revealed that the rain had been replaced by hail. The sound and light effects of the incredible force of nature excited John. Storms of any kind usually did, particularly when he didn't have to go out. And since he wasn't going anywhere, he made himself comfortable and watched the activity of his colleagues.

To his right, Paul was just starting to stir and would probably wake up soon but Yates, the youngest lad in the barracks, was still out like a light at the far end of the room with the covers pulled up so high, only the very top of his head was visible, the bright ginger hair serving as the only thing to know who was curled up underneath that blanket. Fairchild was rumoured to be tied up in a conversation with the toilet bowl, so John thought it best to stay away from there until he was done. Ever since a certain someone threw up on him, his tolerance for seeing people spew had been severely compromised. Thompson, who seemed fine the previous night, was coughing up a lung, as was Harris, but he had already been feverish before. John's own throat was itching suspiciously as well, and Liam Keogh didn't seem to be able to stop sneezing.

But aside from an unusually high number of men being ill, most of the activity was normal. The usual suspects had already showered and tidied up, and were doing press-ups. Where they got the energy, nobody knew, nor did anyone care. Others were taking it easier, getting dressed, or relaxing a bit before breakfast. A few had made their beds first and were only just disappearing into the showers for a wash and a shave. All in all, John concluded, a typical morning. At least, it was until a familiar sound penetrated the noise of the hailstorm and the monotonous murmur of men talking in croaky morning voices.

"Hey lads," Percy Knight yelled, "do we have a new bugle player? This one has his signals all confused!"

"Don't know," John mused, straining his ears to hear the faint sound. "Sounds like Evans to me. There's that wobbly high note... Must be him."

Someone else butted in - one of the Newmans, John could never remember which was which even though the brothers were a year and a half apart, "Did he get struck by lightning, then? Because that can't be right."

"Hailstone to the head, probably," Knight guffawed.

John Adams, who was nearest to the door and already completely dressed, grabbed his rain cape. "I'll go and check. Let my mum know I love her if I don't make it back!"

Laughter rolled through the dormitory and for a few minutes, everyone went back to whatever they were doing. When Adams returned, however, the astonished look on his face shut everyone up in an instant.

"He played the right signal..."

"You must be joking," John shouted, his voice an octave higher than normal. "Assembly? Now? What the hell for? We're supposed to have the morning off, for fuck's sake!"

"I know, mate. Orders of Major Arsehole. Who else, right?"

"Well, no use wasting more time talking about it, is there? It might not be as bad as we fear," Knight shrugged. "Anyway, someone will have to help Yates and Fairchild get ready. Lennon, can you lend McCartney a hand?"

"Who died and made you the prefect, Percy? Besides, I haven't got a hand to spare, son. He'll sooner have to help me." John tossed his pillow at Paul, who seemed to have been drifting in and out of sleep for the past ten minutes. "Oi, Macca, wake up. We've got to assemble."

"No, we don't," Paul grumbled, barely audible due to his face being buried in his pillow. "Piss off!"

"Er, yeah mate, we really do," John chuckled, amused by Paul's foul morning mood. "Come'ead, get that pretty arse of yours in gear. And don't you give me the V, la'. It's not my idea. Now get up. We haven't got much time."

Paul lifted his head off the pillow. "You're actually serious?"

"Afraid so."

"But..." he furrowed his brow, "The Badge said we'd get the morning off; what happened to that?"

"Don't ask me, son. Now hurry up, will ye?"

"Fine, I'm up. I'm..." Just as he was trying to sit up, he screwed up his face. "Ah shit, I can't even get up properly."

At first, John assumed Paul was just being difficult but when he saw the look on his face, it became obvious he really was in pain. "You throw out yer back or something, did you?"

"No, probably just the cold, or a pulled muscle," he grumbled, moving very gingerly into a sitting position, and cursing softly when he struggled to his feet. "Aussie Dan must be at least fifteen stone, you know."

"Oh yeah, forgot about that."

"Me too, until now," Paul chuckled wryly whilst carefully twisting his back in different directions to loosen up. His movements looked wooden to John, more something he'd expect from someone living in an old people's home, really. Going by the expression on Paul's face, he was thinking something similar. "D'you reckon there'll be time for a hot shower?"

"Doubt it, not if you also want to shave." He decided to tease Paul a bit, hoping it'd make him laugh, "And trust me, you do."

"I know." He groaned, but John could see the cheeky twinkle in the lad's eyes. "Let's look at it from the bright side: at least I won't get into trouble for beating up a superior officer, you know. I wouldn't be able to kick Major Arsehole's major arse if I wanted to."

John instantly fell about laughing, which turned into a nasty cough. Apparently, he'd managed to catch something of a cold, which didn't please him at all. Hoping it wasn't going to be made worse by the universally hated American, he dug up his wash bag and trudged to the washroom, followed closely by Paul, who kept muttering under his breath. After shaving twice as fast as he normally did, cleaning his teeth and washing his face, Paul grimaced at himself in the mirror. John could easily guess why: he might as well not have bothered at all.

His own shave had been equally slapdash but unlike Paul, John's facial hair was light enough for the stubble to probably go unnoticed. He wouldn't have to show up with a dark shadow covering his jaw. It might have been less stark on a normal day but now that Paul was notably paler than usual, it was painfully obvious. He shrugged at the lad as if to say, 'sucks to be you, mate,' and finished his own ablutions before hurrying back to the dorm. He knew he had just minutes left, and getting dressed would be a challenge in itself with only one hand.

When John emerged from his wardrobe, precariously balancing his clothes on one arm, Paul was nearly done getting dressed. How he'd managed to suddenly move so quickly when all of his movements had been so slow before, was beyond John. What mattered was that he was nearly done now. However, he wasn't in the same uniform as everyone else. "Didn't you hear the signal, Paul? Yer wearing the wrong dress, you know."

"Am I, John?" Paul stubbornly picked up his belt and put the finishing hand on his attire. "I thought barrack dress was appropriate for those who are supposed to be sick-in-barracks. I mean, it's right there in the name, you know?"

"Yeah, but. Ooooh, I see. Quite the dissident, are you? Didn't think you had it in you, Macca." Grinning broadly, John shoved his No. 5 battledress, which was what they wore for nearly every physical activity, back into his locker and proceeded to gather his own barracks uniform.

"Just watch and see, John. I'll be starting a revolution next, you know. Go on, hurry up. Only five minutes left!"

"I'm trying," he grumbled, "but I can't do me fucking buttons." He fumbled in vain; the buttons were too small and the holes simply too tight to manage with one hand. Even though he had nearly full use of his digits the night before, the fingers of his injured hand wouldn't bend as well as they had before. "I can't even get a hold of them!"

"Get over here then," Paul chuckled. "Move that sling out of the way, will you?" He threw one look at John's fingers and said, "no wonder your hand is stiff. The bandage is too tight. You'll have to get that loosened up a bit."

Glad for the change of subject, which distracted him from the embarrassment of having someone else button up his shirt for him, John looked at his hand and frowned. "How can you even tell?"

"That's easy," Paul shrugged, as he tackled the last button and proceeded to fix John's tie, "your fingers have gone white. Nothing to worry about you know, it's probably just swelling. As long as they're not blue, yer fine," he added, correctly interpreting the slightly alarmed look on John's face.

John's reply got cut off by several people demanding silence so they could hear the new bugle call which was barely audible over the continuous thunderstorm. The last notes had barely died away when the lads who'd already left the dorm walked back inside John shook his head in disbelief. "Recall... Can't they make up their fucking mind?"

"Apparently not. I wonder if we'll ever find out what's going on," Paul said, as he lowered himself onto his bed with a long groan. "Fucking hell, I'm sore..."

"Looks like we might," John said, indicating the arrival of the Badge.

Without even calling them to attention, their visibly annoyed Warrant Officer glanced around the room once, and then barked his orders: "Gentlemen, these are your new orders: Adams, Breannan, Davies, Eiserman, Graham, Hooper, Inverness, Jones, Knight, Knowles, Lachlan, Moore, Newman, Newman, Norwich, O'Dowd, Owen, Pritchard, Rudd, Selwyn, Stone, Tynedale, Washburn, Williams. Report for duty at 13:00 hours. Fairchild, Harris, Keogh, Lennon, McCartney, Thompson, Yates. You are reported sick-to-barracks. Dismiss!" And off he was, without as much as another look or word.

"Then again," John completed his previous statement, "maybe not."

Behind him, Paul moved to lie down with a terribly pleased look on his face, despite the obvious muscle-ache. "He sure looked pissed, though. More than usual, I mean."

"True, that. I wonder if we ever find out what's going on." John completed his outfit by pulling on his jumper and stuck his arm back into the sling he'd been given the night before, before plopping down on Paul's bed uninvited, only barely managing to keep from landing on his friend's ankles.

"Probably not," Paul shrugged as he moved his feet to a safer spot." Anyway, you can go have that bandage redone now, you know."

John scrutinised his hand, which did indeed look whiter than the other. the spot where he knew his skin to be grazed throbbed a little, as well. "Wanna come? Maybe they got something for your back."

"They probably won't, but sure, I'll come. Moving around a bit might help. Let's get breakfast first, though," Paul suggested, pulling a face when John pulled him to his feet. "I'm starving."

An hour later, John wished they'd have gone to the infirmary first to be ahead of the crowd because as it turned out, they were far from the only ones paying a visit to the medical ward. Half the personnel had come down with 'man flu', or that's the impression they got in any case. Most were quickly sent on their way, some even got an earful for even daring to complain about having a head cold or sore muscles. John and Paul, however, were amongst the few that were going to be seen by a doctor.

However, it soon became clear they had a bit of a wait ahead of them before it would be their turn. Most of the waiting room was full save for a few scattered seats. The only spot with two adjacent vacant chairs was right next to the corridor, and that's where they overheard part of an interesting conversation. Paul noticed the agitated discussion first and made John aware of it by elbowing him in the ribs. The voices were somewhat hushed, and it was more than obvious they weren't supposed to hear, so naturally, they strained their ears to pick up as much of it as they could.

"...Utter abuse of authority. I would be in favour of settling this off the record, had this been an isolated incident. However, the fact of the matter is, this appears to be the man's default modus operandi. Something must be done." There was only one person that voice could belong to, and the Badge sounded every bit as vexed as he had earlier.

"You are right, of course," an unfamiliar, slightly less exasperated voice with a familiar - Liverpudlian - accent said. "But would it be wise to eliminate the exchange? What will the U.S. Army say if we dismiss one of their Majors?"

"I suggest we simply explain what happened, General. Surely they must agree he went too far? Making the men push themselves to the limit is one thing, but commanding even the sick to go on a five-mile run to compensate for a march that was aborted for medical reasons? The consequences would have been dire. One of my men, in particular, would have suffered greatly from that kind of exertion."

"Five quid says he means you," John whispered, grinning broadly. By now, he leant so much in the direction of the voices, he'd ended up lying half on top of Paul's lap just so he could hear better. A few blokes were sniggering about it, but John paid them no mind.

Paul rolled his eyes dramatically, hissing, "of course not, don't be stupid. It's probably Yates. Now shut up, I want to hear the rest of it. And for fuck's sake, John, geroff! Your elbow is crushing my balls."

"I wanna hear!"

"You can hear just fine sitting up, now get up and be quiet," Paul demanded, pushing John back towards his own seat.

".....after the attrition they endured. What did he have to say about it?"

"Nothing we haven't heard before. When I confronted him, he was completely unapologetic about it. According to his reasoning, a five-mile run after a good night's sleep equates to the five miles the men were supposed to have marched yesterday." An incredulous sigh escaped the always so stoic Warrant Officer. "He appeared utterly oblivious to the fact that even though they were out of formation, the men still had to walk the distance, which never should have happened to begin with. The assault course itself was more than demanding enough given the weather conditions. Not to mention denying them their day off, which he didn't appear the least bit apologetic about either."

John could tell the General was getting exacerbated as well. "That is outrageous. How does he justify that kind or reasoning? And you're saying he wanted those who are reported sick to run as well?"

"His exact words were: 'if they can stand on their own two feet, they will run.' He seems to think there is nobody better equipped to be the men's disciplinarian than he is. I wish I was exaggerating, Sir, when I say that man is the worst megalomaniac I have ever encountered. Apparently, if we have to take his word for it, this kind of exertion is considered normal in America."

The General let out a listless chuckle. "I find that very hard to believe."

"As do I. But the question remains: what do we do about this situation with Major Arseh-... Excuse me, I mean, Major Klein?"

Laughter roared through the corridor. "You have to admit, Mr Martin, it's the perfect nickname for him!"

"I won't contradict you, General," the Sergeant Major chortled, "but please don't breathe a word of it to the men. I rather keep up the pretence of lacking a sense of humour."

"That's your prerogative, of course." The conversation got interrupted by the arrival of a third person, who apparently was the reason the officers were in that corridor, to begin with. "Ah, there you are, Landon. I was beginning to believe they were going to keep you here. In any case, in order to avoid a diplomatic scandal, we need to determine the most appropriate way to handle..."

By then, the voices were too far away to hear what else was being said. Paul and John exchanged a look disbelief before they both started to speak at the same time.

"He has a sense of humour?"

"They're getting rid of Arsehole?"

John shook his head, signalling for Paul to stop talking. "Hang on, hang on, I didn't get a word of that. What?"

"The Arsehole; they're going to send him packing. Didn't your hear?" Paul looked positively gleeful, his face cracking into one of his full-on smiles.

"Of course, I heard that, Paul. Me hand's hurt, me ears aren't. But what surprised me more is to hear the Sarge has a sense of humour!"

"Yeah, that is a bit of a shock. I reckon I'll never see him the same now." The pensive expression disappeared as quickly as it had come, and once again, Paul was beaming. "Anyway, good thing we went here, isn't it?"

John grinned at the childlike enthusiasm of his friend and adopted a conspirational demeanour when he whispered, "Should we tell the others what we heard?"

"I don't know. It is a pretty good secret."

"Only the S.S., then?" He put on his best pout, "come on, Macca, they'll love this!" His antics weren't wasted on Paul.

"Fine, but only them. It'll be the Misfits' special secret. At least, until everyone else hears it. Which should be around lunch at the latest," Paul chuckled.

"Gear!"

The arrival of a nurse announced the end of their banter, at least for a little while. "Private Lennon? The doctor will see you now. Exam room three."

John got up and stepped into the corridor where the officers' little heart to heart had just taken place. Before he trudged off in the indicated direction, he turned to face Paul. "Wait for me here?"

"Well," Paul stated as he sat back and crossed his arms, "I wasn't going to come in and hold your hand, you know."

John cackled loudly, starting towards the room where his bandage would be fixed. "Insensitive bastard!"

"Thank you," Paul yelled after him. "It's about time I got some acknowledgement for that!"


	13. You Won't See Me

**1 April 1961**

 

**John**

 

Tap, thump.

Tap, thump.

Tap, thump.

'It's been half nine. Neil will probably be there by now.'

Tap, thump.

Tap, thump.

'So will Ringo.'

Tap, thump.

Tap, thump.  
  
An incensed voice pierced through the rhythmic sound, distracting John momentarily from his self-imposed melancholy. "John Winston Lennon, you will stop bouncing that ball right now if you know what's good for you, my boy!"

"Shut up, Mary!"

Tap, thump.

Tap, thump.

'Why didn't he ask me, then? I thought we were mates.'

Tap, thump.

'Guess I was wrong.'

John hurled his old cricket ball into his bookshelf, causing several books and a few trinkets to come crashing down. Rarely had he felt this frustrated. Hadn't he been on his best behaviour over the past weeks; months, even? Not a single dissonant word passed between them for what seemed like ages. Nothing seriously upsetting, in any case. Paul and he had really got close, or so he thought anyway. All those hours spent together; had it meant anything at all?

Recovering from that dreadful day at the assault course had been fun, hadn't it? When everyone else was dragging their arses through the dirt, studying battle strategies, repairing antwacky vehicles, shooting at inanimate objects, or doing any of the other things that were supposed to turn them into the best the Army had to offer, he and Paul had spent nearly a fortnight off duty. Their only order - well, particularly Paul's only order - had been to rest and rest some more. And the Badge of all people had asked him, John, to make sure Paul would actually get the rest he needed this time 'round. Of course, there wasn't really anyone else they could've asked since that fucking chest cold and his wrist injury meant John wouldn't be going back to work for a few weeks, either. But seriously: John Lennon, actually making sure Paul McCartney wouldn't go running off? As if!

Oh, Paul had been 'resting' when he was checked upon, alright. Oftentimes, he'd even be 'sleeping'. But only because they knew exactly when someone would stop by. Sure, he had some serious healing to do and John had kept an eye on Paul the first few days. Not that he needed to put a lot of effort into it: he'd been sleeping most of the time anyway. It was obvious the day at the assault course had meant a massive setback in Paul's recovery from that concussion.

So yes, Paul did kip a lot without even being told to, they both did, but not half as much as their commanding officers thought. Not after the first few days, anyway. As soon as John's fever had broken and Paul stopped falling asleep mid-sentence, they'd be up to no good whenever they felt like it. Their best prank had been to turn the massive flag that hung outside the main building upside-down. Never did get caught, thankfully. There would've been hell to pay if they had.

And then, of course, news of Major Arsehole's departure came through. The clandestine after-lights-out celebration in dormitory B probably didn't go unnoticed, and chances were the food that had mysteriously gone missing from the kitchen had, either, but everyone seemed to be in too good a mood to bother disciplining them for it. Even the Badge had smiled - yes, smiled - when they were given their orders the next day. Of the thirty men in their dorm, the two of them had been the only ones to have advance knowledge of the Yank's imminent dismissal, just like they were also the only ones who knew the Badge knew how to laugh. Sharing that little secret had meant something, hadn't it?

Hadn't they formed a real bond when they were talking about all those things they loved? They had discussed so many topics: family, music, girls, films, memories, dreams, favourite pastimes... John had got the sense that he knew Paul better than he knew himself after sharing all those things. He didn't even have any doubts about calling Paul his best mate now because as much as he cared for Pete, Ivy, and Stu, none of them seemed to understand him the same way Paul did. And yet, when they got off the train at Liverpool Central station, he hadn't been asked to come over. But Neil and Ringo had...

Perhaps he was wrong, then. Maybe it was all just make-believe. Could it be possible Paul only saw him as a comrade in arms, someone he enjoyed hanging out with at the barracks, but not someone he liked enough to welcome into his home life? Was he ashamed to be seen with him by his friends and family? Was it possible that the lad he'd grown so fond of, was just the next person to let him down? He seemed so genuine when they discussed guitars and urged him to bring his with him after Easter, so they could play together. Was he just playing mind games when he'd said that?

Before John could get beat himself up even more over his lapse in judgement, his aunt came bursting in.

"You will watch yourself, lad. I've had enough of this banging about. Enough, you hear? It's unbecoming and it's getting on my last nerve," she griped. She turned around in a huff and stepped out onto the landing. Before she closed the door, she informed him with that signature air of indignation, "Oh, and there's somebody here to see you. They used the front door."

John's head snapped up. Everyone knew to use the back door. Well, everyone that had ever visited Mendips, anyway. How many people did he know that had never been to his house before? One or two, at the most. Could it be...? Who else wouldn't know to go 'round the back in order to avoid Mimi's wrath? He bounded out of his room, hurtled down the stairs and stumbled into the porch.

The moment he saw who it was, his face fell. "Oh, it's you..."

"Very nice to see you too, John. Such a gracious host you are."

"Sorry, Cyn. I didn't mean it like that, alright?" He took a moment to kiss the girl he hadn't seen since the previous summer and used the distraction to get over his disappointment. "I just thought it was someone else. Wanna come upstairs, then? I don't feel like sitting with Mimi."

"Sure, that'd be great," Cynthia nodded, as she took off her coat and shoes.

John leant against the wall as she hopped around on one foot, trying to untie a tangled bootlace. "So why didn't you just come 'round the back, then? You know Mimi hates it when people use the front door."

"Well, it's been so long since I've seen you, John, it didn't seem appropriate to just walk in." Cynthia changed her tactic and crouched down to take on the offending knot, conveniently hiding her face behind her long hair in the process. "What if you'd gone off me and had another girlfriend?"

"Well, yer still my girl as far as I'm concerned, Cyn. And I'll prove it to ye if you let me," he crooned. He could see her cheeks turn pink. "Might have to be quiet, though, or the old bag will come up and complain about the noise."

"Oh, I can be very quiet if I want to, you know that..." She got up, shoeless at last, and wrapped her arms around his waist. "The question is, can you?"

"Let's find out, shall we?"

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

"...alright, alright, I give in! Erm... I saw that, Neil! Okay fine, Everton. What? I was born there."

"No, you weren't," Mike butted in, "You were born in Walton, just like me."

"Well yeah, if you want to be technical about it, but we lived in Everton. And you weren't there yet, so shut up." Paul tossed a cushion at his sibling but rather than hit the intended target, the object landed on the piano behind the lad and produced a disjointed chord.

"Did you see that? An attempt on my life by my very own brother. What has the world come to," Mike lamented. "Oh well, I think the kettle's on the boil. Be right back." He strolled towards the kitchen, casually punching Paul in the arm as he passed him. In the half-hearted struggle that followed, Paul nearly missed George's remark.

"What happened to your hair, Ringo?" George's eyes were fixed on the white streak above Ringo's right ear. Had been for much of the morning, Paul noticed, but it wasn't until that moment that he chose to blurt out his question, just as the youngest Macca left to fix a brew.

"Hazza....!" The single cry came from two voices at opposite ends of the small sitting room. Two pairs of eyes, blue and hazel, stared daggers at the boy from Speke.

The lad shrugged and took a long drag of his cigarette. "It's just a question..."

"That's alright, lads," Ringo chuckled. "I'm surprised neither of you ever asked about it. I would've if I knew a twenty-year-old bloke with grey hair."

Neil sat up straight and pulled a quasi-stern face. "We've got manners, unlike some people." George flipped him the bird, reducing everyone to hysterics. "Case in point," Neil chuckled when he was able to speak again.

"I still don't know now," George grinned.

Ringo stubbed out his smoke and reached for his tea, loudly slurping it down to the dregs before responding. "Dingle is what happened, son."

"Is it? Sorry about that."

Just like anyone else in Liverpool, George didn't need any further explaining to understand what the answer meant. Dingle was about as unpopular a district as you could have: rows and rows of postmark-sized houses without any indoor plumbing where the Teds would beat you up as soon as look at you, and easily curable diseases spread like wildfire. Anyone with half a chance would escape that neighbourhood given half a chance and nobody ever moved there unless it was their last remaining option.

"Don't be, George," Richie shrugged. "It could've been worse."

"It could? How?"

The older lad winked, "could've lived in Manchester."

Once again, the four Liverpudlians burst out laughing. In fact, that was nearly all they had done all morning; they didn't even bother wiping the happy tears from their eyes anymore because someone undoubtedly would reduce them to giggles again anyway. It had definitely been one of the best days in a long time, Paul reckoned. He just wished there wasn't something missing.

When the last of the chuckles were dying down, Richard got up off the sofa. "It's been grand, lads, but I must be off now. Mum's expecting me home for dinner."

"Are you going to make that, Richie," Paul asked, casting a quick glance at the clock on the mantel shelf. "It's nearly half noon. You can eat here, you know. We've got enough."

"Ta', but I promised. She doesn't expect me 'til about one, so it'll be alright." He stepped over George's stretched out legs and headed in the direction of the front door. "Anyway, I'll see you two on Monday and George, it was nice meetin' ye."

"Likewise."

Paul pushed himself out of his father's armchair and joined Ringo, who was already busy putting on his coat and shoes. "I'll see you out."

"Thanks for having me over, Paul. I had a great time." He seemed to be reading Paul's mind because he added quietly, "Pity John couldn't make it, eh?"

"Yeah, it is," he nodded, frowning slightly. "I wonder why he didn't come. Anyway, thanks for coming, mate. In a bit!"

"Ta-ra, wack!"

When he returned to the front room, Neil was just getting up as well. "I have to get going too, lads. I'm supposed to spend the afternoon with family. You know how it goes: you've got three days off, and they expect you to spend every waking minute of it talking to rellies you never see anyway."

"Sorry you can't stay, Neil," George piped up. "Me mam said to ask you both over for tea."

"It'll have to wait, George," he said, shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders. "Send her my love, alright? I'll be sure to drop by over the summer, mate. Plenty of time then. Anyway," he waved, "I better go. See you at the station, Macca. Say hi to John for me if he shows up, alright? See ya, George."

"Sure. Happy Easter, Nell. See you Monday."

After the front door closed behind Neil, Paul crashed down next to George on the sofa. "And then there were two. So, tea at the Harrison's then, eh? I like the sound of that!"

"Thought you might. Bring yer guitar, I've got some new chords to show you and I'm working on a song I want you to look at."

"Sounds good," he said, "but I've broken my B-string and I haven't got any spares."

"I got loads of guitar strings for my birthday. You can have a set, but you'll have to change and tune 'em yerself," he added with a fanged grin. "Do you want to go now?"

Paul shook his head. "Let's have dinner here, and leave right after, alright? Da' and Mike kind of expected you to spend the day here, you know."

"I don't care where you want me to eat, Paul, as long as I get fed."

"Thought you might say that."

George studied his cigarette, which was little more than a stub anymore. He had a bit of a scowl on his face when he asked, "so, who's that John bloke you can't shut up about for more than five minutes? Sounds like a bit of a clown if you ask me."

The hidden message was clear. "Oh, he's a good lad, John is. We're very good mates, him and me. But not as good as us, George. You'll always be my best mate, you know."

George continued to look sceptical, clearly not entirely satisfied with the simple declaration of loyalty. Maybe he had good reason to, Paul mused. "Why isn't he here then? If he's such a good friend."

"Beats me," Paul exclaimed. He'd been wondering the same thing all morning. "Maybe his aunt wouldn't let him out of the house. Anyway, you'd like him."

The younger boy finally decided to stub out his cigarette, after which he got up and inhaled deeply, obviously noticing that the smell of food was beginning to spread through the house. "I'll take your word for it. Let's have some dinner."

As George followed his nose into the dining room, Paul stayed behind in the dense cigarette smoke that lingered. He placed some twigs of lavender in the ashtray and set them alight the way his father always did to mask the smell of nicotine. As the flowers turned to cinders and the relaxing scent spread through the room, he pondered George's question; the same one he had asked himself: why had John failed to show up?

There were so many possible explanations for it. Most of them had already crossed his mind, but the idea that perhaps John didn't consider him a close enough friend just depressed him. There had to be a different reason. He shrugged it off and muttered, "maybe he just forgot."

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

'Maybe he just forgot.'

John lay on his back, smoking lazily whilst Cynthia was sleeping with her head on his chest and her arm draped across his stomach.  
Forgetting was easy, he mused. He, for one, had forgotten he had started to grow weary of his girlfriend even before he first left for Aldershot, the previous summer. Nine months was a long time, more than enough to forget what a bore she really had become to him. So, if he could forget that, maybe Paul had simply forgotten to invite him.

His eyes fell on the shock of bleached blonde hair that obscured Cyn's face from view. With his free hand, he played with a few wayward tresses. He still cared for her deeply, or he thought he did, anyway. He just wasn't sure anymore it went any deeper than that. He loved her once, of that he was sure. When and why exactly that changed, he didn't know. Perhaps they just weren't a good match.

He supposed he'd have to make a decision about her some time. Not today, though. Not right after shagging her, that would be too cruel even for his standards. He'd give it some more time. Maybe try to charm her into trying some more exciting things. Perhaps that was the problem. The sex wasn't bad, not at all, there just weren't any surprises anymore. Cyn never made any effort to change things up, and she sure as fuck wasn't up for half the things John suggested. Having such limited options had kind of taken the fun out of it. He could see himself staying with her if she'd be more adventurous. After all, he really did like her a lot.

And then, of course, there was that odd sensation that had been haunting him for a while. It was fleeting, like a will-o'-the-wisp, it'd be just out of reach, and always gone before he could identify what it was. The closest description John could think of was that a part of him longed for something - or possibly someone - else. Who it could be, assuming it had anything to do with a person, John didn't know. He wasn't even sure that's what it was. But whenever that ghostly sensation came out, he felt awash with excitement. If only he knew what it was; if only those veiled clues would linger long enough to solidify, rather than slip away before they could form a shape, a sound, or even a smell - anything to point him in the right direction.

Whatever his subconscious was telling him, though, he mused, focusing again on the pretty girl sleeping in his arms, he knew what it wasn't. It wasn't telling him that she was his one and only. He sort of wished she was. He'd stuck with Cyn longer than any of his previous girlfriends though he had never been faithful to her. He wondered if Mimi's disdain for Miss Hoylake had anything to do with him keeping her as a steady for so long. Probably did. But in the end, even that wasn't enough to stay invested in the relationship.

Deep down, John knew that if and when he found the true love of his life, he wouldn't want to be with anyone else. So, therefore, Cynthia couldn't be the one. For now, though, he was happy to stay with her a bit longer. And determined to make the best of it while it lasted, he gently woke her up, ready to go it another round because after all: boring sex was better than no sex at all.

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

"Dot's got a new bloke now, you know. I ran into her the other day. Didn't take her long, did it?"

Though Paul had known she had moved on, it still caught him by surprise, and he turned so quickly to face George, that some of the piping hot tea he was sipping sloshed down his front. Admittedly, Dot was the last thing he wanted to think about and being distracted from that subject was great... He just would have preferred something more pleasant than being scorched.

"Oh crap," he moaned, making a futile attempt at stopping the tea from soaking his shirt. "Da' will kill me. It's one of his favourite ones."

"Why are you wearing his clothes, anyway?"

"Because most of my own stuff doesn't fit anymore, George. Bloody hell, if that sets, it'll never come out!" Paul agitatedly fumbled to unbutton the shirt, his mind racing to come up with a way to salvage the piece of clothing. He didn't want to have to face his father's wrath but unless he found a way to get that stain out, he definitely would.

George's mother, who had just sat down to join the boys for a cuppa, calmly put her cup down and held out a hand, inviting Paul to hand over the shirt to her. "Don't worry love, I've dealt with worse. You should see some of the messes George makes sometimes. It'll be good as new when you go home. George, go find something for Paul to wear, will you?"

Mrs Harrison quickly left the room, leaving the boys by themselves in the sitting room. Paul was just rubbing the sore, red spot on his chest where the hot tea had reached his skin when he felt a poke. And then another one.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Yer skinny," George announced, as he jabbed at Paul's back again. "Yer ribs are sticking out an' everything!"

"Those aren't my ribs, la'. That's my spine." Paul didn't know whether to be annoyed or to laugh at George's incredulous expression.

"Well, that's sticking out too. And you've got all these... muscles and things." He was now prodding at Paul's arms. "You always used to be so fat."

Definitely feeling a bit disgruntled, he protested, "that was years ago! And I wasn't fat, I was just..." Paul faltered, trying to find the right word.

"Pudgy? Blimp-sized? Whale-like?" George's cheeky smile lit up his eyes, despite Paul's attempts at hitting him. Unsuccessfully trying to avoid the flailing hands, he yelled over his shoulder, "Mam! You've got to see this!"

Nearly instantly, Aunt Louise peered around the corner, suds covering her lower arms. "I was busy, George, what is it?"

"Look at Paul, mam." He underlined his words by prodding at the apparently offensive bones some more. "Yer always sayin' I'm too thin, and tellin' me to eat more," he whinged, "but what about him?"

"Well for one," she said, disappearing for a second and re-emerging with a tea towel in her hands, "you're my son and Paul isn't.  
However..." Her disapproving look made Paul try to cover himself up but by doing so, he only succeeded in putting more emphasis on the breadth of his shoulders and chest, making his waist seem even narrower than it was.

"He's not wrong, Paul," she mused, whilst her face adopted a look of intense worry. "You are skin and bones. You need to eat more. But George," she continued, "that doesn't mean you don't have to gain weight. You both do." To Paul's embarrassment, and apparently George's too, she ran a hand over both boys' heads. Thankfully for him, his hair was short enough that it didn't affect how he looked. George, however, immediately started fussing over his elaborate hairdo, carefully making sure any hair his mother had upset was put back into place.

"Told you," he sighed finally, catching Paul's gaze.

"Well, it's true," his mother argued. "Now if you'll excuse me, that stain isn't going to come out on its own. And George, didn't I tell you to go fetch a jumper or something for Paul? Try Peter's wardrobe, he's about the right size." And with another concerned look at the boys, she left again.

"You better come along before she comes back with a tonne of food. Come'ead, you can pick something out yerself," George muttered. With an incredulous look on his face, he pinched Paul's arm again. "How'd you get these, anyway?"

"Like this," Paul laughed, and before George could protest, Paul grabbed hold of him and pulled the younger lad on his shoulders. In spite of George's yelled protests and desperate attempts to break free, he didn't put him back down until they were upstairs.

"What the hell did you do that for?" He huffed indignantly and his hands flew up once again to check if his massive quiff had suffered any damage from the abuse.

"Because I can," Paul chuckled. "Besides, you were asking for it, with all yer poking and calling me fat!"

"Well you were," he muttered under his breath. Visibly relieved to find his 'do was still perfectly styled, George quirked an eyebrow. "I thought they were teaching you how to shoot and things like that."

"They do," Paul acknowledged, following George into Peter's bedroom. "But we also have to other stuff, you know, including carrying someone around like that."

"But why? I mean, what's the use?"

He crossed his arms and leant his back against the wall. "Well, let's say there's a war on, and you get shot..."

"Okay..."

"As I said," Paul repeated with a bit more insistence, "there's a war on, and you get shot..."

"Oh, right." George's face lit up with the biggest smile, and he looked around for a soft place to land. "Oh no, I have been shot," he said dryly. He took his sweet time staggering through the bedroom, making all sorts of hilarious noises and equally ridiculous faces, before dramatically falling to his knees. With a final, theatrical cry, he fell back and allowed his hand to slide lifelessly down Peter's bedside cabinet in one last, tragicomic gesture. "Okay, I'm dead now," he deadpanned.

"You can't be dead," Paul hiccuped between peals of laughter, "there's no need to rescue you if you're dead, you know. They'll just leave you out there to rot until they can pull you out safely. So, if you're really dead, I'll just-..."

"No, wait! I've come back to life and I'm nearly dead now."

"Perfect." He crouched next to George, who was visibly struggling to keep a straight face, and wailed, "Oh no, my best mate George is nearly dead! The enemy's coming, whatever will I do?" After his demonstration of terrible acting skills, Paul quickly changed his voice to indifference and stated, "Oh, screw that little shit. I'm saving my own arse. See ya, Geo."

Now fully committed to the game, George put on an affected 'damsel-in-distress'-voice. "Oh, please rescue me, Paul, I'll give you a set of guitar strings if you do."

"Two sets."

George opened one eye and glowered with it as best he could, but Paul didn't back down. "Bastard. Fine! Just hurry, the Gerries are coming!"

"Alright, alright. Keep yer pants on. Okay, so yer dead - no, nearly dead and I need a new set of strings so I have to save you." Paul bit his bottom lip, struggling against a fit of giggles. Who knew corpses could roll their eyes? "I'll need to have my hands free, you know, in case I have to shoot my way out of there, so I can't drag you, or give you a piggyback. And I wasn't going to carry you like a bride even if that was an option. I mean, think of the gossip, you know?" He avoided the punch a suddenly very lively, nearly-dead-George aimed at him. He counted the options on his fingers. "I don't want yer arse in my face so I'm not slinging you over one shoulder. Therefore, I have to leave you behind or..."

"It's okay, you can just leave me," George laughed, batting away Paul's hands. "Just don't pick me up again, it's embarrassing."

"As you wish," Paul shrugged. "But I'm getting those strings anyway. Yer not weaselling yer way out of that one."

"Bully!"

"I'll show you bullying! Come here, you!"

Before George had any time to grasp what was coming, Paul came at him for what was supposed to be the most ruthless tickle attack he'd ever attempted. Trapped between Peter's bed and the bedside cabinet, George had no way of escape but, as per usual, that didn't seem to bother him. Where he got the moves, Paul didn't know, but he never managed to get more than a few tickles in before George pushed hm off and, quicker than lightning, moved to sit on top of him. With the tables thoroughly turned, Paul was left to defend himself which was bloody difficult to do when he was laughing as hard as he was. The staged fight went on for several minutes, getting more raucous with each punch. Paul didn't want to do anything that would actually hurt George so he held back a bit, but George most definitely wasn't showing any mercy. The odds had just changed in Paul's favour for the third time when the sound of someone coughing made him freeze his actions and turn his head towards the sound.

"Oh, hi Aunt Louise."

She cast a casual glance at Paul, whose hands were closed around her youngest offspring's neck, and George, who was in the middle of punching his best friend in the stomach. "I got the impression a pair of elephants were dancing an Irish jig up here, so I thought I'd come and see the show, but it's just you two then." She shook her head in dismay. "Paul, why are you still only half dressed, dear?" She stepped over the tangled mess of legs and rummaged through Peter's wardrobe, emerging with a pale blue jumper. "Here, give this one a try."

Paul reluctantly forfeited his upper hand and let go of George in order to pull on the jumper, which indeed turned out to be the right size.

"Oh, that looks lovely on you, Paul, very handsome indeed. I always felt Peter looked a bit washed out in it, but it suits you perfectly. Brings out your eyes, too." Paul felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment at the last remark, but George's mother either didn't notice him blush or wasn't perturbed by it. "I think you should keep it. George, stop punching Paul. You're getting a bit too old for mucking about like that, aren't you? Why don't you lads practice some guitar instead? Perhaps you can come downstairs and play us all a few songs later." She scrutinised Paul one more time before going downstairs. "You should definitely keep that jumper. Consider it yours."

"Not a word," Paul warned George when Mrs Harrison was out of earshot. "Or I will kill you. Trust me, I've learnt how."

"Well you're no fun at all," George complained, but he swallowed the remark Paul had seen coming a mile away anyway and scrambled to his feet. "Well alright, let's get our guitars out, then. There's this demented chord I want to show you."

Without so much as another look, let alone offering a hand, George walked out of the room and into the one next-door to it, leaving Paul to his own devices. By the time he'd got up and put back a few of the things he'd knocked over, Paul could already hear the first chords coming from George's room. Moments later, he'd unpacked his own guitar and played along, which was easier said than done with a missing string.

Once George made good on his promise and Paul was once again able to make use of all six strings, they started playing in earnest en time flew by. Paul picked up several new chords from George and in turn taught him some chords and tricks he'd gotten from one of the blokes at the barracks. Between that, and the leisurely jam that lasted for more than thirty minutes, Paul was having one of the best afternoons in ages. If they hadn't been driven downstairs by the kind of thirst that made singing next to impossible, Paul happily would've stayed up in George's room indefinitely, just playing at random to see what they could come up with.

Of course, there was another promise to keep once they did show their faces downstairs, but Paul didn't mind. He liked playing to an audience, especially when those listening were as grateful as George's mum. After George sang 'Glad All Over' at her request, Paul launched into 'Till There Was You', which gave George the opportunity to impress her some more by playing a note- perfect solo, and they both received a heartfelt kiss on the cheek from a slightly misty-eyed Mrs Harrison for their performance.

A song or two later, George's dad arrived home and asked them to do 'Don't Ever Change', one of the few songs they both sang lead on. Just before they were called to the table, they played a song Paul had written with George's help, 'In Spite Of All The Danger', and then, just as Peter was arriving home, they stopped for tea. It wasn't really until then that Paul noticed he was actually feeling quite hungry. He'd had too much fun to even pay attention to that.

He'd barely sat down at the dining table when Peter remarked, "Hey Paul, I've got a jumper just like that one."

Paul instantly felt his ears growing hot. He'd forgotten all about it, really, but now he felt embarrassed about Aunt Louise's comments all over again. He hadn't even stopped to think Peter would be there to see him wearing that sweater but before he could think of anything to say, Mrs Harrison stated, "you used to have a jumper like that, Pete. You don't, anymore."

"What?" The way Pete's voice rose an octave was too comical, and Paul found himself grinning along with the other people at the table. "Are you giving away my clothes now? What kind of mother are you?"

"Schtum! You've got more than enough left to wear, Pete," Aunt Louise pointed out. "Your brother made Paul spill tea all over his shirt; would you rather have him walking around naked?"

"No, but why didn't you give him something of George's, then? If it's his fault..."

Aunt Louise shook her head in a way that looked as if she was questioning her son's sanity. "How did you expect someone three inches taller than George to fit into any of his things? Besides, I happen to think it looks much nicer on him than on you."

"It brings out his eyes," George grinned, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

Staring daggers at him wasn't much use anymore, Paul realised. After all, he'd already said it, and Peter had already sniggered in response. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't have his revenge. After all, the humiliated blush Paul could feel clinging to his cheeks would fade much, much faster than the bruise that was left on George's shin after Paul kicked him hard underneath the table...

 

**-*-**

 

**3 April 1961**

 

**John**

 

So, he concluded as he slammed the thick book closed, it definitely wasn't the concussion. He knew that before he even looked, of course. After all, the injury hadn't bothered Paul anymore since early February, so why would he suddenly start showing residual effects? Still, part of him had hoped to read something in the encyclopaedia that would serve as a medical explanation for why Paul didn't ask him to come over. Not that John wanted his friend to have something medically wrong with him, not at all. He just didn't want to come to the conclusion that perhaps he simply wasn't welcome.

Reading the entry he was looking for did clarify a few things. If anything, it painted a very clear picture of how strong Paul actually was. It had to take immeasurable amounts of willpower to carry on the way he had. Then again, it also showed what an utter idiot he'd been for not taking the time to rest and heal properly.

The many details also renewed John's sense of guilt and made him deeply conscious of what he had done and how badly it could have ended if any of the described complications had arisen. John never realised how close he had come to actually killing someone with his bare hands. Now, he knew, and he hated himself for it. Just a tiny bit more force, or a slightly different angle, and he would've cracked Paul's skull. The thought made John a little nauseous. He'd never imagined it could be that easy to actually end somebody's life.

Yes, reading the encyclopaedia was very insightful, John mused. It often had been. Mimi had always encouraged him to read it and learn about things he didn't understand. Expanding one's knowledge was always something his aunt valued, which explained the presence of the series of books. Within their leather-bound covers, embossed with gold lettering, they contained countless of answers to nearly every practical question. And yet, for all the knowledge those books contained, they had often failed to offer the insight John sought.

Those beautiful books couldn't explain to him why his father abandoned him when he was three years old, or why, at the age of five, he was sent to live with his aunt. Reading his way through every library in the world wouldn't give John any insight into why his uncle George, whom he loved so dearly, not in the last place for showing him how to draw rude pictures, had to die when John was just fourteen. The question of how was not the issue, that was just the technical part of it. But he would never understand why it had to happen, much less why he had to lose his mother for the second time, just a few short years after his uncle passed and just as she was becoming an increasingly important presence in his life.

Nothing that truly mattered could be explained by books. No matter how many volumes he leafed through, he never found the answers to the questions about himself that often plagued him. Perhaps, if he knew where to look, he might find some insight into some of the thoughts, urges, or emotions that confused him so terribly at times. But deep down, he realised that he was going to have to suss all of that out by himself because those sterile words weren't going to be applicable to every aspect of his character. Who he really was, what was truly wrong with him, what he wanted in life, and whether he'd turn out alright were questions only he could answer, over time. If he was lucky enough to even figure it out.

And now, yet again, John was reminded that some solutions weren't to be found in books written by clever people. Despite all the wisdom it contained, Mimi's collection had proven unable to tell John why he hadn't invited to spend Saturday morning at the McCartneys, nor did it do anything to make him less anxious about the nature of his friendship with Paul. He'd have to find an answer to those worries somewhere else but for now, every scenario he could think of made him feel worse.

He emerged from his thoughts when Mimi addressed him. "I do believe you ought to be going now, John. You're taking quite the risk leaving this late as it is. What if you miss your train?"

"Then I'll have to take the next one, won't I?" John rose from his seat and returned the book to its proper place on the shelf. How could something that informative be such a waste of time? All it had achieved was to make him feel worse. Deciding there was only one place left to look for answers, John grabbed his beret off the coffee table and kissed his aunt on the cheek before putting it on. "Alright, I'm off then."

"Don't you forget to write, John. You've been far too callous about it lately."

"Fine, I'll write every week," he sighed as he made his way to the front door where his luggage was waiting for him. It was far too bulky to fit comfortably through the side gate, so Mimi had instructed him to go out the front for once, so he wouldn't damage her plants.

John's eyes fell on his tattered guitar case and he paused. He'd have to decide now. Would he bring it with him, or forget about it? In other words: did he trust Paul enough to give him the benefit of the doubt, or was he going to draw the conclusion that he had been taken for a fool? He moved to pick it up, only to falter at the last moment and reconsider. Take it, or leave it? Trust, or distrust? Friends, or...? He didn't even want to entertain the thought of what the alternative for friendship was, yet he couldn't shake the thought. One thing he was sure of: time was running out; he'd have to leg it if he was going to catch the train as it was.

"Come on, choose," he told himself, his voice echoing slightly through the vestibule. He heaved a deep sigh and made his decision, hoping he wouldn't end up wishing he'd gone for the other option. "See you in June, Mimi," he yelled, before opening the front door. He straightened his beret, glanced back one more time to make sure he had everything he was going to bring, and ran as fast as he could to the bus stop.

Whether he chose right or wrong, he didn't yet know. But he reckoned he'd soon find out.


	14. I'll Be On My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. My cat was fell ill a few weeks ago and I've been trying to nurse him back to health ever since. Sadly, there wasn't anything I can do to fix the underlying problem (probably leukaemia) and I had to have him put to sleep last Friday. I've been struggling to get back on my feet and I'm doing a lot better now, but please be kind if the next chapters take some time to post. It's been a very stressful time and writing is difficult enough as it is. I know you all want me to write faster, but it isn't something you can force, or switch on at will. You know what helps a lot, though? Constructive comments. Tell me what you think of the story, leave me a bit of a review or your thoughts on the things that are going on. I love long, detailed comments. Thank you!

**Paul**

 

"Come on, mate! Yer holding up the train!"

For the past five minutes or so, Paul had been hovering, one foot perched firmly on the lowest step of the train entrance, the other on the platform. Other than him and the train guard, the area was deserted. Unsurprisingly so, considering the official departure time had come and gone.

"Maybe he already got on. Are you sure you haven't seen him, Neil?"

"Yes I am, now get yer arse in here." Neil tugged on Paul's arm in a fruitless effort to pull him inside. "John is a big lad, he can get to the barracks by himself."

"I know that! But don't you think it's odd? What if something happened? He didn't show on Saturday either, you know. Didn't even ring." Paul knew he was probably overreacting, and that looking at the end of the platform wasn't make John magically appear. But it just didn't sit right with him somehow to just leave without knowing where the hell John was. After all, Paul knew what John was capable of...

"Whatever you say, Macca," Neil grumbled with an exasperated sigh. "Just get on this bleedin' train so it can leave. The guard looks ready to kick you off altogether. And if he doesn't, I will."

"I'd like to see him try," Paul huffed. "Like to see you try, too."

Neil threw up his hands and cursed under his breath. "Be glad yer wearing that uniform, son. My dad knows that bloke; he was in the war. I bet that's the only reason he has humoured you this long. Anyway, board this fucking train now before I lend you a hand."

"Alright, fine." Giving up wasn't Paul's thing, but he also didn't want to be completely unreasonable. He cast an apologetic smile at the guard before grabbing the metal rod just inside the door and propelling himself up with such vigour, he nearly crashed into his old schoolmate. Even before he could pick up his bags, the door had shut behind him and the train had begun to move. Dejectedly, he shuffled through the narrow corridor until he found them and empty compartment. "In here looks good."  
  
"I honestly don't get why you've got yer knickers in a twist over John missing the train, Paul. I mean, he's our mate and all, but don't you think yer overreacting? I mean, delaying the train? Really?" Neil ceased wrestling his bag for a moment to glance over his shoulder. "That's crackers, even for you."

"Why, thank you very much, Neil," Paul smirked, securing his guitar case in the overhead baggage rack. "It just makes me wonder, is all. You know how important it is to John to be included. Or, rather, how he gets when he's not, you know."

"Yeah, I do. When did you invite him, then? I didn't hear you mentioning it on the train home."

"Thursday. He seemed dead chuffed about it too, said he'd be there with knobs on." Paul pulled a tattered leather bag out of the oversized duffle bag and tossed it aside before stowing the bulky piece of luggage overhead. "I'm just asking myself what could've happened or if he's in trouble somehow. It wouldn't exactly be the first time John would find himself in a spot of bother, would it? Anyway, I'll shut up about it, alright?"

"Please do," Neil guffawed. "You know John, he'll land on his feet. Now, let's talk about something else. The bloke isn't even here and he's still getting on my nerves!"

"Fair enough. Got anything specific on your mind, then?"

Neil shrugged one shoulder whilst glancing out the window at the houses passing by. They were just passing Sefton Park and would be within pissing distance of Paul's home in a minute or so. "Nothing in particular, no. Are you going in for a trim when we get there? I know I am."

Paul glanced in the small mirror over Neil's head and ran his fingers through his hair, ruining his half-arsed attempt at getting some kind of quiff-like style going in the process. It hadn't looked like much before, but now it was sticking out at every which angle. Deciding it wasn't his most favourable look, he quickly put his beret on to hide the unruly mess he'd made. It was finally starting to grow out a bit, and the idea of going back to the billiard ball look wasn't very appealing. Paul wasn't sure what other options he had, though. He didn't think it was long enough to really do much of anything with it.

"Might. Might not. I don't know," he finally muttered, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of his house which, as he bloody well knew, couldn't be seen from the train; even the aerial on the roof was blocked from view by the posh houses near the tracks. "I'd like to let it grow a bit longer. Probably will pop in to say hi to Richie either way."

"You should," Neil nodded, He'll be chuffed to see some familiar faces. He'll likely want to get his scissors out, too. You know, do something else than giving people buzz cuts all day. Why not let him? He might be able to make something of that bird's nest."

"Are you barmy? Last time I sat in his chair, I nearly bled to death out of a gaping hole in my head," Paul joked. "The lad is a menace to public health, I'm tellin' ye!"

"Poor sod! He was really upset about that, you know. He really thought he'd nicked you before he found out what happened." Neil grinned at the memory. "Anyway, if yer trying to grow it out to cover that scar, don't bother. It's hardly visible, trust me."

"I'm not quite as vain as that, Nell."

All Paul got in response to that was a non-committal noise which could have meant anything at all. Knowing Neil and how much he enjoyed taking the piss, Paul had a fairly good idea what it was supposed to convey.

"Well, I'm not. I only mind that scar because it's like having a built-in barometer." He grinned at Neil's puzzled look. "It starts to nag when the weather's changing."

"Oh! Could come in handy, that," Neil chuckled as he got up to shut the small window. It had started to drizzle, making the compartment a bit chilly. "I don't get it, though. The Badge is going to tell you to have it trimmed before long anyway. Why not just get it over with now? What's the big deal?"

Not sure Neil would understand, Paul harrumphed a bit before a raised eyebrow informed him he'd have to be a bit more informative than that. "That's just it. These stupid rules telling us exactly how to look. I'm just getting sick of not having any individuality, you know? I don't even bother bringing any civvies with me anymore. It's not like we get to wear them. Anyway, I know you think it's childish but I just want to be myself as much as I can."

"I get what you mean and yeah, it's a drag, but it's only temporary, mate" Neil shook his head in a way that clearly showed he expected Paul to be more pragmatic about the whole thing. Which, usually, he was. "Is discerning yourself from the rest worth being called to account for having long hair? Doesn't seem worth it, mate."

"I know, but..." Paul lit himself a cigarette and offered one to Neil as well. He inhaled deeply, allowing the hot smoke to roll around his lungs before blowing it out into a long trail. "It's different for you. You chose this, you know? I didn't, so it's just one more thing to hate about this whole ordeal. Anyway, they won't penalise me for it, though, I don't think. It doesn't cover my neck or ears yet, so I think it'll be alright for a bit longer."

"You'll hear it if it isn't anyway."

"I know." With the bifter dangling from his lips, Paul reached out for the bag on the seat next to him and started to open it when Neil caught him off guard with a sudden change of subject.

"So, that bird was rather keen on you."

He lowered the bag and threw Neil a quizzical look. "What? Which bird?"

"The one in the tea room." Neil rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Oh, don't be coy, Macca. You can't possibly have missed it. She was all over you. I swear she would've let you shag her right there if you'd tried."

"Don't be daft. Besides," he muttered, "even if she was, I'm not interested."

Neil blinked a few times as if to make sure he heard it right. "Why? I thought she was cute. Not too thin, nice tits, pretty hair... I gladly would've had her."

"Then you should've made a move," Paul chuckled. He tried to focus on creating smoke rings of various sizes, only to be distracted by Neil's snort. "Alright, I agree she was rather fit. Still not interested, though."

"Well, call the papers. Paul McCartney, Liverpool's number one skirt chaser, isn't interested in the local talent. You must be ill. No, scratch that, you must be dying." After his dramatic wail, Neil lunged forwards and pressed his hand to Paul's forehead with a flourish, laughing loudly when Paul tried in vain to swat him off. "Yeah, definitely about to conk."

"Very funny, Neil."

"Isn't it, though?" He adopted a more serious tone as he perused Paul. "Yer not still gutted over Dot, are you? She's moved on, son. You should, too. Besides, it's not like she was the catch of the century, don't mind me saying it."

Paul delayed having to answer by taking a long drag of his quickly shrinking cigarette. He didn't really want to talk about it. The breakup itself didn't have that much of an adverse effect on him anymore, but being binbagged rather than being the one doing the binbagging, that was a different matter. It was a bloke thing, he supposed. A matter of male pride or something irrational like that.

"It's not because of Dot," he finally mused, frowning at the glowing end of his cigarette as if it could somehow provide him with answers. "I just think I'd like to be single for a while. Less complicated, you know."

"Less sex, too."

Good old Neil always knew how to defuse a tense situation, Paul thought. He flashed a knowing smirk. "As if either of us was getting any to begin with. When's the last time you got lucky?"

"With a girl, you mean?"

"Yeah, I wasn't talking about yer wanking hand, Neil," Paul snorted. "I'm sure that one's been very busy."

The rebuttal was instant. They had, after all, had similar discussions before in the past. "Not as much as yours, I'd bet."

By means of a reply, Paul waggled his eyebrows and grinned cheekily. Neil wouldn't want or need any spoken confirmation anyway. Neither did he, really. What his mates did to pass the time spent alone in their bedrooms wasn't particularly interesting to Paul. "So, you didn't have any luck last weekend, then?"

Now it was Neil's turn to delay and deflect. "No comment."

"Yeah, thought as much. Anyway, what's the use of finding a new girl when I'm never home long enough to have some proper fun together?" He shrugged before crushing out his cigarette. "I don't see the point, I guess."

"Different subject?"

"Please," Paul chuckled. Life was too short to waste on serious subjects, he reckoned. Besides, there were so many reasons why he had no interest in getting a new girlfriend just yet, they could've talked about it for hours. And that was something he had no desire to do whatsoever. "Let's lighten the mood a bit, mate."

"How about some music," Neil suggested, casting a hopeful glance at the guitar case over Paul's head. " You didn't play for us at Easter like you said you would. Time to make good on that promise, mate. Come on, take out yer guitar."

"I would've played, you know. If I hadn't broken a string."

"Serves you right for all those fancy tricks you do. That can't be normal, bending the strings and stuff like that. George never does that, and he never breaks any strings," Neil declared with an air as if he knew the first thing about guitars, which he didn't. "Go'ead, mate. Let's hear you play."

Unperturbed by Neil's shameless whinging, Paul made no effort to honour the request. After all, they'd only just crossed the Mersey on their way out of Liverpool and the train was now slowing down for its first stop in Runcorn, meaning only twenty minutes had passed since they departed from Lime Street Station. "Not right now, Neil. We still got hours to go."

Neil wasn't so easily deterred. "So?"

"So, you'd keep me playing the rest of the way, you cheeky bastard! I suggest we save the singalong for after we change trains. In the meantime," he added with a wink, shaking the bag he'd unsuccessfully been trying to introduce ever since they took their seats, "we might make short work of this."

Neil scrutinised the satchel with a deep frown on his face as if he was utterly confused by the sight of it. "Is that George's old school bag? What've you got in there, then?"

"Sweets, mostly. Courtesy of Aunt Louise," Paul grinned. He'd only given the bag's contents a fleeting look when George's mum gave it to him. He'd already been half out the door and she wouldn't take no for an answer so Paul had done the polite thing and thrown a quick glance into the bag just so he knew what he was thanking her for, but he'd been too busy to really investigate further.

Paul couldn't say he wasn't curious, though. The contents were rather heavy and, from what he could see, highly varied. It sort of looked as if Aunt Louise had randomly opened cupboards and pulled out the first edible thing she could find. Knowing her, and remembering the fuss she'd made over his weight, Paul suspected that was exactly what she'd done, and she'd probably been muttering to herself the whole time about how she'd fatten him up if it's the last thing she did. All Paul could hope for was that she wouldn't start sending him food parcels next. Although... Getting one of her famous pies in the post wouldn't necessarily be an unwelcome surprise...

Trying to discover if there were any perishables in there that had to be eaten first, Paul rummaged through it as thoroughly as he could and eventually emerged with a beaming smile. Apart from some homemade Eccles cakes and Liverpool tarts, which he'd discovered in a tightly sealed tin, there wasn't anything that would go bad anytime soon. There was, however, an unexpected treat hidden near the bottom. "George will have kittens when he finds out what she put in here. Look at this: Good News!"

Neil's response was priceless: his eyes grew twice as big and Paul could see him just barely managing to stop himself from pulling the box right out of Paul's hands. Then again, Neil had always been so fond of chocolate, he even put Mike to shame. "Bagsy ginger sling! So, why is George's mum supplying you with sweets, then?"

"She's enabling my sugar addiction, mate. My personal dealer, but don't tell anyone or they'll want in on the action," Paul winked, causing Neil to break out in giggles. Remembering the embarrassing conversation, Paul pulled a long face which only made his friend laugh harder. "It's actually a bit embarrassing. She reckons I'm too thin, so she's taken it upon herself to fatten me up. Stop laughing, Nell!"

"What? It's funny," Neil hiccuped, wiping the tears from his eyes. "And for what it's worth, you are skinny. Especially compared to..."

"...A few years ago," Paul supplied. "I know. No need to remind me of that, George already did, the insolent little git."

"Ah, just let 'em talk, Macca. Mum's the same. No matter how many times I explain they make us run about and lift heavy stuff a lot, she still keeps nattering on about me being skin and bones, which is rubbish, but you know mum. I'm surprised she hasn't written the army yet, demanding we get more food." He shook his head, chuckling, "She's practically been force-feeding me all weekend, each thing she put in front of me fatter and sweeter than the last. I'm tellin' ye mate, if she gets her way, I'll be twenty stone in a few years."

Relieved to know it wasn't just him, Paul relaxed a bit and saw the humour of the situation. "I know what you mean. My aunties stash the cupboards with all my favourite stuff before I get home. I must've put on three pounds last weekend alone!"

"I wonder how much this will add," Neil grinned, gesturing at the bag and some of the things Paul had taken out of it during their little back and forth. He shrugged and got up to re-open the tiny window so he could toss the remains of his cigarette into the rain which was starting to get heavier the further south they got. "Oh well, it'll come off again soon enough. Shall we start, then? The sooner we finish this lot, the sooner I can pester you into taking out yer guitar."

"Quite the knight in shining armour, aren't you," Paul joked as he stared into the box of chocolates, not sure which one to have first.

"Does that make you a damsel in distress?"

Setting the box down in his lap, Paul struck a dainty pose and batted his eyelashes, sending Neil into a fit of laughter. "Arr eh! Are you making fun of my ravishingly good looks? How dare you! I shall have to retaliate by eating the ginger sling."

"You can't," Neil shouted in feigned anger, "I bagsied it."

Paul stuck out his tongue and quickly popped the designated chocolate in his mouth, ignoring Neil's theatrical protest. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

Neil tried to retaliate by stealing the Savoy truffle, but Paul saw him coming a mile away and held the box out of his reach until Neil sank back into his seat, pouting. "Being skinny makes you mean, Paul. You should eat more, maybe then you'll be nice again."

"Good, I'll not share my sweets with you, then."

"Then again, starve yourself. Much better plan," Neil teased, as he deftly dodged the crumpled up wrapper that got pelted at him.

Taking pity on his friend, but not too much, Paul extracted one of the chocolates and offered it to Neil. "Here, you can have the coconut fudge."

"I hate coconut."

Without missing a beat, Paul bit down on the poor, rejected piece of confectionary. Unlike Neil, he didn't mind coconut at all. "Good. More for me!"

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

If he squinted hard enough, he could just about see a tiny dot, growing smaller until it disappeared into the distant horizon. Or perhaps it was just his imagination. Either way, his train was somewhere out there, and he wasn't on it. He sort of knew he'd miss it when he saw the bus drive off, mere seconds before he reached the stop. But still, National Rail might have decided to stop being punctual, you never knew.

Six minutes. John missed his connection by three hundred and sixty bloody seconds. And the next one wasn't scheduled to leave until fourteen past ten. That gave him a little over fifty minutes to kill. Well, unless he was willing to take the one that left at four minutes to ten, but that one would halt at every last station along the way, meaning it'd take him even longer to get to Euston. Once he was there, it didn't matter which one he took. All trains in that direction stopped in Aldershot, after all.

Thinking six hours and twenty-two minutes was a terribly long time to spend mulling over the Paul situation, John decided to go and get himself some things to make the time go faster. Three minutes later, he emerged from the news agency with the latest edition of the Echo and a bulging bag of Everton mints. He was just about to wonder what to do next when the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastry lured him into the little tea room, three doors down.

"Give us a dirty big cup of coffee and a purra those cross buns please, luv. And wrap me..." John groped around his pocket and pulled out the first coins he found, "a quid and three bob worth of cakes to go. Doesn't matter which."

The girl behind the counter giggled. Apparently, he'd said something funny. "That's a lot of pastry. Are you sure you want that many?"

"Well, I've got a long journey ahead, luv," John shrugged, not entirely sure what the problem was. Wasn't the point of that bird's job to sell as much food as possible? "And what's it to ye, anyway?"

"No, no, of course, it's none of my business," she hurried to say. "Please make yourself comfortable. I'll bring you your order momentarily."

Glad to have that sorted, John sauntered towards a table by the window and plunked down, watching the people as they came and went. It wasn't the busiest time of day, but there was still plenty to see, given that most people were still on Easter holiday. Lovers kissing hello or goodbye, ladies pushing prams, men in macs, carrying attache cases, little children running 'round, getting on their parents' nerves... It was as if those people out there were putting on a play just for him, and he was happy to watch.

"Here you go, sir. Enjoy!" John nodded at the girl and focused on his drink. Or, at least, that's what he intended to do when he noticed she was lingering, watching him expectantly.

"Did I forget something?"

In the span of a second, the girl's face turned a violent shade of pink. "No, it's nothing like that. It's just... There were a few other army men here before. Do you know them?"

Yeah, because as everyone knew, John thought to himself whilst trying his hardest to keep the sarcastic thought inside of his head, joining the Army automatically meant you knew every single bloke who'd ever worn one of those bloody uniforms. Didn't this bird know there was a fucking barracks in Liverpool and many others across the country? John hadn't even a clue how many Scousers were in the Army, but he reckoned it had to be a lot. "You'll need to be more specific than that if you want an educated answer."

She seemed at odds with herself, perhaps he'd scared her. He was just about to lose his patience with her nervous fidgeting and lack of getting to the point when she finally spoke up. "There were these two lads earlier, about thirty minutes ago. They're about your age, I think, or maybe a bit younger? Nice lads. Handsome, too."

"Two of them? Not three?"

"Yes."

Of course, John recalled, Ringo left a day early so he'd be at the barracks when the first of the men arrived back from holiday. That meant she could be talking about Neil and Paul. "One a bit shorter than me, blond hair, big ears, blue eyes, the other a bit taller, black hair, big, hazel eyes?"

She nodded with a suspicious glimmer in her eye. John was starting to sense where this was going. "That's them, yes. You do know them, then?"

"I wouldn't be able to describe them if I didn't, would I," he deadpanned, thinking she really wasn't too bright. "So, what about them?"

"I was wondering," she stammered, seeming rather nervous, "the tallest one, with the dark hair, would you give him this note for me? I would've done it myself, only they were gone so fast."

Of course, it had to be Paul. Who else, right? "You want me to give this to Pa-... one of my mates? Why?"

"Well, I was hoping maybe he'd remember me and ring me up sometime," she said, sounding and looking a lot more confident now that she'd sussed John really knew the men she was talking about. She wasn't blushing anymore, in any case. Or was she? "You know, go on a date or something."

No, definitely still blotchy, John concluded as his patience really started to wane. On some level, he could respect the girl's determination, but who was she to assume Paul would even be interested? "Bit forward to assume he's available, isn't it? For all you know, the bloke could have a wife and kids at home, couldn't he?"

"Does he?"

Her retort had been so fast, it nearly made his head spin. John raised his eyebrows and nearly blurted out, 'yes', just to be rid of her. And it wouldn't even be more than half a lie, right? Sure, Paul was single and childless, but he could've been married with a kid, couldn't he, if things had gone differently for him and Dot? But rather than give any definitive answer, he bit his tongue and stared at the waitress. She sure was adamant, he had to give her that. "I don't think that's any of yer business at all."

"So, the answer is no, then?"

"If yer asking, am I going to play postman for ye, then yes, the answer is no," John finally said bluntly, unable - and frankly not even attempting - to keep the acid out of his tone. "If yer talking about the wife and kids thing, that's for me to know and for you to find out. Good luck with that; yer not getting any answers about my mates' personal lives from me. Now kindly leave off before my fucking brew gets cold. Ta'... luv."

He watched the girl retreat back to her station, where she proceeded to stare daggers at him until finally, another patron walked in. John pitied her a bit. He had been overly harsh, and she seemed genuinely keen on Paul. Well, he'd gotten her knickers wet in any case, which was probably a more accurate assertion of the reason for her endless prodding. Then again, it didn't surprise him. Even John could see that as far as blokes went, Macca was a particularly good-looking one. Hadn't he himself once mused that if Paul had been a girl, he'd probably want to shag him... her...? Whatever?

But playing Cupid and forwarding love notes from random doting birds, that was pushing it a bit. That just wasn't on. Having gone slightly off his tea, or coffee, in this case, John abandoned his seat and filed out of the shop, baggage and pastries in tow. It really was a dirty big bag of cakes, he observed. Given the shitty mood he was in now, and the long day ahead, he reckoned it was just about enough to get him nauseous by the time he reached the barracks.

It was as good a thing to aspire to as any.

 

-*-

 

There was no sign of Paul when John arrived at the dormitory, stuffed to the gills with sugary food and feeling as bloated as he ever had. Not quite sick enough to be ill, but he definitely wasn't in the best shape, and not being able to immediately have a go at Paul for snubbing him didn't do much to make him feel better.

Where Paul could be, John didn't know. Hanging out with Neil, possibly. Perhaps he hadn't arrived yet. Perhaps he was avoiding him. Suspecting it was the latter, John opened his locker. It wasn't entirely empty though he had taken most of his things home for the holiday. Cyn's photo was still taped to the inside of the door, along with an old one of himself as a little boy, posing with his mum, and a third one, showing Mimi, giving his cat Suki a cuddle. His dress uniform, worn only on special occasions, was right where he left it, along with some other clothing items he hadn't needed to bring home for washing.

On the top shelf were his books. Despite the barracks' library offering a wider range of things to read than John could ever hope for, he couldn't imagine not having his own books around, so he'd brought them on day one and had no intention of taking them back home until after graduation. He didn't like hauling them back and forth all the time, especially since he didn't have much time to read during the short trips home anyway. John grabbed the topmost one, which he had been reading before the weekend, and tossed it on the bed, meaning to dive right in after he finished squaring his stuff away.

He was just making himself comfortable on his bed a few minutes later, book in hand, about to read a chapter or two, when Paul walked in. By the look of it, John concluded, he had just come from Ringo's for a haircut. Now that he had his glasses on, he could very clearly see the difference. The sides were most notably different: most of the hair above his ears and collar had been shorn, and the higher up it got, the longer it became.

The top still seemed the same length, and an effort had been made to shape the beginnings of a pompadour. Not an easy task, given the fact that the longest strands couldn't be more than two inches, but Ringo had done a surprisingly good job at it. At least, John felt it looked good, and the style suited Paul rather well. If he hadn't already resembled The King a bit, he certainly did now. John was so impressed by it, he almost forgot he was cheesed off with Paul. Just as he was about to pay the kid a compliment, John saw the guitar case, which reminded him of the chip on his shoulder.

"Eh up, John! Alright?" It sounded like the most normal thing ever, as if Paul was utterly unaware of how rude he'd been to exclude John.

"Alright," he replied monotonously.

Apparently unaware of the lacklustre greeting, Paul propped up his guitar against the side of his wardrobe and began to unpack. Barely a minute later, his slightly muffled voice addressed John. "We missed you last Saturday, mate."

"Well, you should have asked me to come over, then, shouldn't you," John groused, his stare fixed on what he could see of his neighbour.

"What are you on about?"

John hadn't wanted to start a row, at least not until after the Badge finished his inspection, but he couldn't bite it back any longer. "Why did you invite the other Misfits, but not me?"

"What? I did invite you. You just never showed up." The words were difficult to make out now that Paul had his head inside the locker to put the last things in the far corner, but John thought he heard a chuckle. Just what he needed: being laughed at.

"No, you fucking didn't."

Paul must've noticed the anger in his voice because he looked annoyed when he closed the door and sat down on his bed, clutching a notebook and a pen. "Yes, John, I fucking did."

"I think I'd remember if you had," John argued.

"Apparently not. I wrote it down for you an' all. You said you'd be there." Paul was definitely upset now. Nobody was able to miss that frown. Or that sharp edge to his voice which only ever came out when someone really got on Paul's goat, which was exactly what John was after.

"Oh, you wrote me a note then, did you?"

"That's what I said, John," Paul bit back, shooting daggers with his eyes.

John chuckled wryly. "Then where is it?"

"How the fuck should I know?" Without waiting for a further reply, Paul furiously started scribbling in his journal.

John knew that attitude: it meant he had closed himself off completely, something he tended to do when he didn't want to hear something, or - like now - wanted to tell someone to go to hell without actually saying it. The look on his face said it all, really. The normally arched eyebrows were pulled down into a deep scowl, and mouth were pointing south, creating an angry pout. Either he really believed he had invited John, or this was a way of not having to admit he fucked up.

Whichever it was, this was a game John could play equally well. So he picked up his book again and opened it at the page he had finished reading last time. He removed the bookmark and placed it on the left-hand page, so he could read the page on the right, making as much of a spectacle as possible just to get his 'fuck you too' message across. If Paul thought he was going to win this little stalemate, he was dead wrong and John would show him. His book would keep him occupied a longer than any old diary could entertain Paul. And if it didn't, he'd just re-read it.

John was about three pages into the chapter when his eyes slowly drifted away from the page he was reading. Without realising he was doing it, he began reading the words on the makeshift bookmark instead, the brick in his stomach growing heavier with each consecutive syllable in that beautiful, immaculate handwriting.

 

> _20 Forthlin Rd._   
>  _Follow Yewtree Rd into Booker Ave_   
>  _Turn left onto Mather Ave_   
>  _Take 1st right after police barracks_
> 
> _Or, take 86 from either Penny Lane or Speke airport_   
>  _Get off at Chalton Rd/Forthlin Rd adj._
> 
> _Saturday, anytime after 9.30_  
>    
> _GAR 6922_
> 
> _See you then - Paul_

 

Fuck.

Now that he saw it, John distinctly remembered. Paul had written the note on Thursday and handed it him when he was reading, telling him he'd be expected to stay for dinner, and to give a ring if he couldn't make it. How could he have forgotten? Had he been so caught up in the story he was reading, that the whole thing slipped his mind? He must have been, and since the book - with the note in it - had been left at the barracks, it wasn't there to remind him of his promise. Paul hadn't let him down at all, it was the other way around.

A little voice in the back of his mind tried to tell John that Paul could've come to see him if he was really that bothered - he knew where he lived after all. But then, in all fairness, he knew that was rubbish. He'd already invited him. He had no reason to come and check on him. As much as John would have loved to shift the blame, he couldn't justify it. Not this time. Admitting that was going to be difficult, though. There was such a thing as pride. But he had to. He'd expect an apology too if the shoe was on the other foot.

"Erm, Macca..."

Why didn't it surprise him that he didn't get a reply? A sideways glance told him Paul was writing or drawing, whatever he was doing, with sharp movements which clearly showed his anger, and with the same sullen look on his face as ten minutes earlier. Probably making a list of all the reasons he had for hating John, and if he was completely honest, John couldn't blame Paul if that was indeed what he was doing. He likely would have behaved the same. No, worse. He would've started a major row. Might even have used his fists.

For a few moments, John just sat there, feeling stupid, and wondering how he was going to coax Paul out of his shell. He decided the best way to go about it, was to appeal to his mate's sense of humour. Laughing had gotten them closer before, so it might work again. Little by little, an idea began to form in his head which should, in theory, get that scowl off his mate's face.

Very casually, he reached into his bag of sweets and apropos of nothing, flung one of the black and white striped mints at Paul. It landed right where he wanted it to: right in the middle of that blasted journal. With an annoyed sigh, the sweet got swept off the page and the scribbling recommenced. No luck so far.

The second one landed just short of Paul's bed. The third hit Moore squarely in the head. Wanting to compensate for the pitiful previous attempt, John had used too much force. Moore cursed, interrupted his the conversation with his mates, rubbed his head, and proceeded to eat the offending candy after offering John a two- fingered salute. John thought he saw the corner of Paul's mouth twitch, but if he did, it only lasted a fleeting moment. Overall, he still looked bloody pissed off.

"Pa-aaaauullll," he chanted, managing to throw the fourth and fifth mints right in his lap. The sixth had a mind of its own and John had no idea where that one ended up. Since nobody was paying any attention to them, and, therefore, no one could have seen the thing land, chances were it'd never be found. Oh, well, John mused, such is life. He had sweets to spare, anyway, since the pastries had been more than enough. Another mint landed on the journal and got swept to the floor like its predecessors. There was a nice congregation of them starting to form down there. The ants would have a feast if someone wouldn't pick them up.

"I can do this all night you know," John chuckled, pelting a handful of them in Paul's general direction at once, which scattered everywhere. There had to be over a dozen lying around, now, but it still failed to assuage Paul, who kept his eyes firmly on his writing. "When I run out of these, I've got plenty of other crap to throw at you. Books come to mind. Heavy ones, with hard covers. They make excellent projectiles. Go on, mate. Don't be so bloody-minded, right?"

"What do you want?" At least, it was an acknowledgement, albeit a rather peeved one.

"I need to tell you something," John said, a tonne of butter in his voice. Surely that should help move things along?

"Well?"

Apparently, laying on the charm did little to impress Paul. Either that, or he was just being difficult for the sake of it. "Guess what I found?"

"A brain?"

Ah, the old brain joke. John took that as a positive sign, no matter how sarcastic it had sounded. "Not yet. But I did find your phone number. It's here on a piece of paper, along with all sorts of rubbish about roads and buses."

"So?" The single syllable was still every bit as clipped as the previous ones.

John sighed, realising he wasn't going to win this by being witty. He'd actually have to say those words he so rarely uttered. "I'm sorry for doubting you, alright? I completely forgot you gave me this, and my mind just got away from me. It was an honest mistake. I spent all weekend feeling miserable, so I guess I've already been punished for it anyway."

That caught his attention. Slowly, Paul looked up, an expression of utter befuddlement etched on his face. "Miserable? About what?"

"I thought you didn't think of me as a friend, didn't I? Made myself go mental, thinking you didn't want me to be a part of yer private life." John shrugged, trying to look less insecure than he felt. He didn't particularly like that part of him that got so bothered whenever someone let him down.

The anger was pretty much gone from Paul's face by now, but he looked far from the cheerful lad John had hoped to see. In fact, he appeared to be rather sad, with that expression which very much resembled that of a lost puppy. "Is that how you see me, John? As someone who doesn't care about you? Do you think that makes me feel good, you doubting my friendship over a little thing like this?"

"Well, what did you think then, about me not showing up?"

After a brief hesitation, Paul lowered his pen and paper and turned a bit to face John fully. "I thought maybe you forgot, or your aunt wouldn't let you out of the house, or something urgent came up, you know. Alright, I did consider the possibility that maybe you just didn't want to spend your free time with me, but that was just a moment, and it wasn't just me, either. We all wondered where you were, you know. When you weren't at the station this morning, I was worried something might have happened." He faltered and lapsed into his nervous habit of chewing his bottom lip, apparently embarrassed by his confession.

"You were worried about me?"

"All the stuff I say, and that's what you take away from it," Paul huffed, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I was. I care about my friends' wellbeing, John. Got a problem with that?"

Slightly taken aback by the challenging tone of Paul's words, John shook his head. "No. I'm touched, actually. Not many people care enough to worry about me."

"Well, I do," Paul muttered. It was obvious to see John's candour had taken him by surprise. There was still a hint of resentment in his demeanour, but he was defrosting before John's eyes. "Try to remember that next time you think the whole world's out to get you, John."

"I will." John's mind wandered a moment as he tried to come to terms with the knowledge that not only did Paul actually care, he'd said it aloud. John supposed he should've already guessed it. He quietly digested the idea that someone he'd treated so badly could be that forgiving, and then he suddenly remembered something. "Hey Paul, can I ask you something?"

"Depends, what is it?"

John heard the reservation in there. Clearly, Paul was still guarded. Forcing himself to not take it personally, John kept his voice even as he gestured in the direction of Paul's guitar case. "Would you teach me how to play guitar properly?"

Paul looked around, raising an eyebrow when he couldn't spot a guitar. "Where's yours, then? I don't think you'll be able to play mine unless you know how to play upside down."

"It's in my wardrobe. And no, I can't," John grinned, glad to be moving away from the awkwardness. "So, would you?"

"Yeah, I think I can show you some stuff," Paul nodded "One one condition. No, make that two. In fact, let's make it three, just to be sure."

He cackled, half expecting the list of demands to grow. "Name it."

"One, no more of this 'Paul doesn't like me' rubbish. We've been through that in the past, and I'm over it."

"I can do that," he nodded. "And two?"

Paul, who was counting off his list of demands on his fingers, extended a second one at the same instant that twinkle John had been hoping to see appeared in his eyes. "Toss butterscotch or chocolates next time. I may be Evertonian, but I don't really care for Everton Mints all that much."

"Wait, yer from Everton? I thought you said Speke, and Al-..." The way Paul raised an eyebrow was enough to stop John from starting a discussion on heritage. He grinned sheepishly. "Duly noted. And lastly?"

"Give me that note."

Puzzled, John did as he was told and watched as Paul started striking things out with a vengeance. He couldn't read his expression, but he didn't need to wonder what he was thinking for long because the slip of paper was thrust at him seconds later.

The 'Saturday' part had been thoroughly blacked out. So much in fact, that the ink was coming out the back of the paper. At the bottom of the page, some new words were penned down:

 

> _Paul's birthday bash_
> 
> _18 June, anytime after 10. Beware of rellies._

 

"Beware of rellies?" A loud snort escaped John's throat, though he wasn't entirely sure it was because of the mental image of Paul's relations being any threat at all, or the way Paul was trying to look dead serious. "Are they that scary?"

"They can be," Paul grinned, "there's loads of 'em. It gets a bit mental sometimes, you know. Especially after a few Irish creams or brandies."

"So, you think I'm fit to meet them then, eh?"

Paul picked up his journal again, though all the passive-aggressiveness was gone by now. "If yer up for it. They're usually quite benign. If they get anxious, just offer 'em food or sing 'em a song. That'll do the trick. Are you going to show up this time?"

"With knobs on," John chuckled, repeating his promise from a few days earlier. Only this time, he was not going to forget about it and actually be there. He might even be on his best behaviour, too. "Hey, Paul?"

"Hmm?"

John got the impression Paul barely even heard him anymore, but he said what he wanted to say anyway. "I like the hair. Very army-era Elvis. It suits you."

A mint hit him painfully in the forehead, but at least Paul was really smiling now. Those little lines underneath his eyes popped up and everything. All was right again, at least for the time being. For John, that was enough.


	15. What You're Doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the sweet comments on chapter 14. It's been a tough week and it still hurts sometimes, but I've done the right thing so that helps. The cremation was yesterday. From now on, I know every day will be a bit easier. I've dealt with it several times before and thankfully, I have two other cats who keep me occupied. And, of course, this fic to distract me.
> 
> It's my mum's birthday. She's close to Paul's age, so what better way to celebrate than to post the next chapter? I hope you'll like it, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd leave me some comments again. I don't know why, but it gives me inspiration somehow. Have a lovely day!

**5 April 1961**

 

**Paul**

 

"You're up early."

Paul hummed an inarticulate reply as John sat down next to him on the steps outside their dormitory; the heat radiating from his John's body a subtle reminder of how chilly the air really was. He'd stopped noticing a while ago, too deeply immersed in his thoughts to really pay attention to the goose pimples that had gradually erupted all over his skin. The brief reminder of the near-freezing temperature send a slight shiver down Paul's spine, but he kept his stare fixed on the scene he was watching and kept silent until John nudged his knee into Paul's. Acknowledging the attempt at starting a conversation, Paul asked the first question that came to mind.

"What time is it?"

"It's just gone half five."

"Hmm, okay." John's form was clearly visible in his periphery. Paul could plainly see his friend was studying his profile: his focus appeared to trail from the thumb propping up his chin and the neglected cigarette that hung loosely between two fingers, barely an inch from his mouth, up to his eyes, where they lingered with a questioning expression until he broke the silence, speaking quietly as if he was afraid to startle Paul. "Anything wrong?"

He turned his head to catch John's gaze, forcing a wan smile. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure, Paul?" There was a deep intensity in John's gaze as if he was attempting to not just look at Paul, but rather straight into his head. Clearly, he was trying to get behind the mask. "You seem miles away, son, and you've never been up and about before anyone else. Yer not acting like yerself at all."  
  
"I couldn't sleep, that's all," Paul shrugged. "Thought I'd watch the day begin. Enjoy a bit of peace and quiet, you know."

He gestured at the sky, which was a fascinating gradient going from nearly black on one end, to a startlingly beautiful shade of steel blue at the other. It was going to be light unusually early for the time of year, that much was plain to see. The moon was still out, and there were several stars visible, scattered across the velvety canopy like diamonds spilt over a delicate cloth. It was only the very first stage of dawn, but the continuously changing colours were a breathtaking indication of imminent sunrise. A few wisps of clouds lit up in delicate shades of pink, purple, and orange, gradually intensifying as the minutes passed.

Paul knew that soon, the sky would be ablaze with far more vivid hues of the same colours. Everything indicated that it was going to be a fantastically clear day. It would be cold, five or six degrees Celsius at the most, and the thin wind would cut right through their skins, but it would be dry, and the hypnotising scenery told Paul and John they were going to experience one of the first truly beautiful days of spring.

And yet... John wasn't entirely wrong. He wasn't merely up with the birds to admire a pretty sunrise. He had been feeling a bit melancholic lately, and when his older friend joined him just then, his mind had indeed been elsewhere. It had been at home, wondering if the sky over Liverpool would be just as clear and captivating and whether any of the people he loved were looking up then, as well. Given the hour, they probably weren't.

He theorised that if anyone was, they'd be watching the same moon, and that would almost be like meeting that person's eyes. They wouldn't be so far away, would they, if their gazes would cross by watching the same sky. Paul wasn't homesick, he didn't think. He just wished his family and friends were closer. He'd always taken their proximity for granted, always thought it normal to just wander into an aunt's house, or to see a friend walk into the McCartney residence like he belonged there. Those little things had definitely become paramount to him over the past months.

Normally, he wouldn't feel so sentimental about it all. His dissatisfaction with his new life and the realisation of what he signed up for had brought it all out into the footlight. Perhaps it wasn't so much that he wanted to be with his loved ones, many of whom he had seen just days prior, but rather that he wished to be someplace that wasn't his current location. However, he didn't quite feel like sharing all of those private thoughts. Exposing that part of his psyche would be every bit as compromising as being caught naked, Paul thought. Some things, he just rather kept to himself.

A sideways glance told Paul that John was nearly just as captured by the rapidly changing sky as he was, but not quite as much, because every few seconds, his eyes would wander back to Paul. And each time they did, they'd have that scrutinising look, that expression that said, 'who do you think yer trying to fool?'. However, the matter wasn't being pressed, so Paul didn't feel too uncomfortable by it. It occurred to him that he hadn't taken a drag from his cigarette in a while and that John apparently had left his own inside. He dug up his pack and held it out to John. "Smoke?"

"Ta'. Got a light?"

Paul pulled out his matchbox. "Just about got one." He struck it and curled his free hand behind the flame, trying to shield it from the wind to little avail. Just as John huddled in closer, a sharp gust made the tiny light flare up and then die out. With a yelp, Paul dropped the burnt out matchstick. "Ah, shit!"

"Did you burn yerself, Paul?" John tried to grab his hand, probably to see for himself what the damage was. On some level, Paul knew it was only because by now, John knew he wouldn't admit to being burnt even if he had been. But since he hadn't, he moved his hand out of John's immediate reach and inspected it himself.

"No, not really. Just stings a bit," he grumbled, rubbing the small, painful spot where the fire grazed his skin. It was a bit red, but it didn't seem very serious. He estimated it'd stop aching and be forgotten within minutes. "That was the last one, though. Wasted half a box just lighting mine. Ruddy wind!"

"It's going to be cold today."

"Yeah, but it'll be dry." His eyes fell on John, who was toying with the still unlit fag. "C'mere, then."

Acknowledging Paul's gesture, John leant in, bringing his head closer until their noses nearly touched, and pulled hard on his cigarette, using the glowing embers of Paul's cigarette to light his own. "Cheers, mate. I was dying for a smoke."

He hummed in agreement. "First one of the day always tastes the best, doesn't it?"

"It's not bad, anyway. So, you're sure yer alright, then?" So much for avoiding the subject. Obviously, John wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

"Oh, come on. Talk to me, Macca." Another nudge to his knee. A bit more insisting this time. In fact, John didn't even move it away now, and just stayed sat like that. With most other people, Paul wouldn't have felt comfortable with someone invading his personal space that long. For some reason, he didn't mind when John did it. "You may think yer putting on a brave face, but I can tell something's eating at you."

"It's nothing, really," Paul shrugged. "It's just this place, you know. I'm over it."

"You still have more than a year to go. Nothing you can do to change that. That's a long time to walk around with yer heart in yer boots, son. You might be happier if you just accept it, like. You know what I mean?" He gave Paul's shoulder a squeeze. "I get it, mate, but I really think yer doing yerself a disservice, feeling all hard-done-by, and all that."

Paul gauged John's expression, which was uncharacteristically soft. He didn't really know why it surprised him so much that John was showing such concern for his mental well-being. Other friends had done the same, after all, and Paul knew very well that John wasn't as hard-headed as he wanted to let on, but still. There was an unusual fondness in his eyes. Somehow, it made opening up a lot easier when John was being so supportive. "I know. But it all seems so pointless, you know. Shoot this gun, dig that foxhole, learn this code, drive that tank..."

"Driving a tank was fun, though. Sorry for nearly running you over, by the way. Good thing you can run so fast, right?"

Paul smiled weakly. It had been hilarious, there was no use in denying that. "Alright, it was fun, but what's the use, John? I don't plan on ever using that skill, or pretty much any of the stuff they teach us here. If a war breaks out, I'll sooner shoot myself in the foot than be deployed."

"They court-martial you for that, you know." John blew a long trail of smoke into the icy air, where it lingered for a bit whilst he finished his thought. "Too many deserters coming up with the same idea. They don't put you against the wall for it anymore, but I still wouldn't advise it. Twenty years in prison is a long time."

"Alright, I'll untie my shoe and tumble down a flight of stairs, then. They'll have a hard time proving that wasn't an accident."

He could see John understood he was actually serious about it. It was also clear he had a hard time seeing it from Paul's point of view. "I think yer biased, Paul. It's not all bad. There are good sides to all of this too."

"Maybe, but I'm just done with it. It's all the same bullshit. We're just a bunch of nobodies, going through the motions without having any say in it. It's such a drag. I don't even know what day it is anymore."  
  
"Wednesday," John supplied.

"Alright, so it's Wednesday." He tried to remember the schedule, which he had subconsciously avoided memorising. "That means what, breakfast, walking ten miles in full gear,-"

John interjected to correct him. "No, a workout first."

"Right, so that's what, agility this week? No, that was last week. Strength, then. A million sit-ups, sixty thousand press-ups n'dat, and then that march..."

He got interrupted again, but this time by an incredulous chortle. "Christ, you are in a state, aren't you? Talk about exaggerating, Macca! A hundred sit-ups and fifty press-ups aren't that much of a stretch, I've seen you do more. And you like some of the other exercises, I know you do. Anyway, yer forgetting the bit that comes next: dinner."

Ignoring John's little jibe, he pressed on. "Dinner, then short-range target practice and gun maintenance, followed by tactical theory and communications. Well, that's alright, I guess. Deciphering your Morse coded jokes is a laugh, at least. Tea after that, and then... Erm... first aid. Well, that's new, at least,” he added sarcastically.

"Yeah, first aid. I forgot we were going to get that. Should be easy for you," John added, nudging Paul gently.

"Possibly," he mused. "Depends on what they'll be teaching us. It's a lot for one day, though."

"What else is new?"

"True. But that's it, you know? It's just the same, day in and day out. At least twelve hours a day of all that stuff, six days a week." Paul could feel his frustration rise to the surface. He'd got to the real source of his pain, and now that he lifted the lid of that cesspool, he found himself unable to keep all the pent up resentment from pouring out. He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, but even then, he could hear the emotion dripping from his words.

"And for what? You stop feeling like yer a person after a while, you know? We all look the same, eat the same, do the same useless shite at the same damn time. Even the loo breaks are scheduled, how daft is that? What are we, a bunch of kids who can't think for themselves? They've got it all planned out for us. Shave at six in the morning, shower at eight in the evening, sleep at half ten, rise at half five, rinse and repeat. We're just puppets on a string, you know."

John began to say, "I don't think that's..." But Paul was already continuing his rant, it had become impossible for him to stop so he kept talking, giving in to the disgruntlement he'd been swallowing ever since his father forced him to sign up.

"Just a bunch of nameless kids," he rambled, "stripped of our personalities and trained to die a little slower when we're sent off to fight some war, cooked up by some generals somewhere. Because that's all we're good for, you know? To fight and fall for Queen and country. And even after we die, we're still anonymous. It's probably easier for them to think of us as troops, just a faceless mass, rather than actual people, you know. It's not so bad probably when they don't have to think about the people whose lives they're ruining. Oh, we'll be called heroes, they'll give us a fucking medal for conking, you know, because that's apparently a commendable thing to do, to get killed by some bloke you might even have been friends with if some bigwig hadn't declared him your enemy, you know."

He drew a tremulous breath. Rarely had he felt angrier, more powerless. And John didn't speak. He just looked at him, so he went on, allowing the words to leave him like poison being drawn from a wound.

"It's not even the fault of the guy that shoots you, you know because he's in the same boat. He's just canon fodder to the powers that be, as well. He's told he should hate you because you're wearing a different uniform, or speaking the wrong language. He'll never even know who he's killed, and nobody on our side will ever know his name, either. We're taught to murder people, you know, and for what, John? Just think about it; that bloke on the other side may have a wife and a baby at home, he's got parents, and friends, and brothers and sisters. If he gets it, he's missed too, but his superiors don't care either, you know. He may like the same music as you, he may even look a bit like you. You can bet he's just as scared as you, and he probably wants to be home and live in peace, but he has to shoot or be shot, just like us, you know. And the people who send us out there are safe in their bunkers, moving their pawns about, deciding who lives and dies without ever even seeing our faces. We're not people to them, you know, we're troops, regiments, numbers. John didn't die, Paul didn't die, no, there were just casualties. Oh well, bring in the next batch."

It was like Pandora's Box had been opened. Whenever Paul thought that maybe he was done, another thought came rushing out. So, he just let it, since it wouldn't be stopped anyway. Not now that he found someone who seemed to want to hear it all.

"All we can do is obey orders and hope to live to fight another battle, which we probably won't because someone has to fall and there's a one in two chance it's you. If it isn't, it's the other guy. Either way, nobody wins. You die or become a murderer. Those are your only options, you know. Who knows, we might even be given an extra stripe to wear on our sleeves if we kill enough blokes, or if we somehow manage to die a little more spectacularly, as if that does anyone any good, but we'll still all be the same. Forget about being buried in yer favourite kecks in a spot near your house, you know. They stick us in the same uniform, and the same wooden box and we get the same tombstone in the same cemetery. And they'll think they did your family a favour. They'll consider it an honour, you know. But who needs that? Your family doesn't, they just want you back, but the Army still owns you, you know. Even in death, they still want to control you. And they still won't give a fuck about who we are."

He took a long, sharp drag and forcefully blew out the smoke before he went on. John was still watching him quietly apparently aware that there was even more to come.

"Even then, they won't say, 'Oh yeah, that was John, a bloke with a very kind heart and a great artistic talent, whom life dealt a shitty hand. They won't say, oh, but Paul was going to be a doctor if he hadn't got depressed and fucked up his A-levels because his mum died. No, they'll go, private Lennon or private McCartney was a good, loyal soldier who gave his life for his country, you know. The same fucking speech everyone else gets. Even then, they aren't interested in the real us, you know? Have you ever looked at your tags? We've even got a number, for fuck's sake. That's all we are now, John, a number and a bunch of abbreviations on a small piece of metal we have to wear around our necks because they won't even know who which name to write on the fucking headstone if we take those tags off. And it all begins here, you know. This is where they rob us of our individuality and teach us everything we need to know to take the other bloke's life. It all seems so benign, a bit of exercise, a bit of target practice, a bit of fun, driving a tank. But it's much more than that and it makes me sick. That's what I'm saying, John. I mean, I can handle it most days, but sometimes it just sinks in and it gets too much."

He felt deflated and empty, but his head seemed a bit clearer. Not that he felt any happier. In the story of Pandora's Box, all the negativity was followed up by hope. He was still waiting for that to arrive. Perhaps this time, though, there was none. He shrugged and fell silent. He didn't really know what else to say. Apparently, neither did John, because he remained silent for a little while. His voice was low and solemn when he finally responded.

"Christ, Paul... That's some serious shit. I knew you hated it here, but that... Fucking hell, that's deep. I never looked at it like that. I don't even know what to say. Except... if you feel that strongly about it, why did you agree to sign up? I mean, have you tried explaining it to yer dad?"

"Oh yeah, I have," Paul said bitterly, remembering the day he tried to change his dad's mind as if it was just yesterday. "A year ago, when he gave me the ultimatum. I told him exactly how I felt about it, and that I didn't want to do it."

"Well," John insisted, "what did he say?"

"He didn't 'say' all that much, really. Not with his voice, anyway," Paul replied, adding some air quotes to emphasise the meaning of his words.

"Well, what then?"

Paul let out a mirthless chortle. "He beat me."

It wasn't an easy thing to confess. Only very few people knew about it: Mike, obviously. George did, too, having involuntarily witnessed a similar event when he walked in at the worst possible moment. Neil found out. He'd noticed a strange bruise and wouldn't accept any of Paul's lame excuses. Denying it was useless anyway since he'd already sussed out the truth by the shape and size of the marks. A few of his aunties and uncles were aware of it and had varying opinions on their brother's methods of discipline, but that was about it. Paul never thought he'd tell John, if only because he didn't think his friend would understand. Judging by the murderous expression that appeared on John's face, that had been an accurate guess.

"He what?" John's cry ricocheted off the surrounding buildings.

Paul tilted his head to the side and managed a smile though he guessed it was a rather sad one. "He hit me. Right in the face."

"You're joking."

"Do you see me laughing, John?"

"Fucking bastard," John hissed, stubbing out his cigarette rather aggressively. He'd only smoked half of it.

Despite the pain and anger he'd experienced, Paul felt he needed to stand up for his father, no matter how much the episode had hurt him. "He isn't, you know. He's a great man, loves Mike and me a lot. I mean, of course, it's wrong, but things have been difficult for him after mum died, you know?"

"You shouldn't defend him for that, Paul. It's been hard on you too, losing yer mum an' all. It doesn't justify beating yer kids, especially like that. Striking you across yer face for having valid objections to joining the army?" John shook his head. Paul could see him clenching his jaw as if he was literally trying to swallow some angry comments. "That's just not on, mate. Fuck that, even if you hadn't had a good reason for defying him, it's still dead wrong."

"I know, but still." Paul faltered for a moment, searching for a way to explain why he felt the way he did. He could see why John would have such a black and white opinion of it, but he was missing the context of it, so Paul tried to provide some. "He's pretty old too, you know. Values were different when he was our age. I mean, it must be hard doing all that stuff mum used to take care of, on top of working extra shifts to make up for the loss of her income. His sisters take turns coming 'round on Mondays, to do the cooking and cleaning, and Mike and I do what we can to help, but he basically raised us on his own. I think he's done a good job, all things considering. So you take the bad with the good, you know."

"But he beats you," John exclaimed, frustration getting the better of him.

Paul shook his head. "He doesn't beat me. I mean, he does sometimes, but it's not like he goes around hitting us constantly, you know. I don't want you to think that, because it isn't like that."

"Whatever, Paul," John grumbled. "What did you do? You know, that time."

"Told him to go ahead and do it again if it made him feel better."

"Jesus. Did he?"

"No. He didn't lay a hand on me for months. Then again, I stayed out of his hair too. There was no use trying to change his mind anyway. He wouldn't budge, and where was I going to go? You can't get a house when yer seventeen and even if you can, I didn't have any money. So, here I am. My family is happy, and I'm fucking miserable." He discarded his burnt-out cigarette butt and heaved a deep sigh. "Now you know what's on my mind, John. Got any thoughts on the matter?"

John seemed to chew on it a bit before finally answering in a tone that gave Paul the impression he was struggling to put it all into perspective. "It's a lot to digest, Paul. Not just yer about yer dad, but your view on the Army. You raise some points I hadn't really considered yet. I'm not saying you're wrong..."

"But?"

"But." John scuffed his boot across the chipped paint of the steps they were sat on. "Yer looking at it from a very negative angle. It's like you decided to hate everything about it, even the stuff you might actually like if you kept an open mind. Yer making yerself blind to the positive bits."

"Name one," Paul challenged him.

"Me," John stated. The smug expression on his face was so comical and such an abrupt change from his pensive body language a moment before, it was as if he'd been waiting for a chance to say something like that.

Paul found himself dumbstruck for a moment. He reckoned he had to look stupid as fuck, staring at John like that. The joke had come from nowhere and wasn't even that funny, but Paul couldn't deny the timing was perfect. It was such an absurd twist, it sobered him right up and for the first time that day, he found himself laughing in earnest.

"You?"

"Yes! Where would you be without me? Just think how empty yer life would be without my charming personality, rugged good looks, and saintlike patience! Admit it, Macca, I'm the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Well, at least, yer modest."

"Of course, I am." John gave Paul a shoulder bump. "You should really pull yerself out of this mood, Macca. It doesn't suit you at all to be this glum. Besides, there's a big chance neither of us will ever spend a day at the front, so why worry about it? What have you done with that annoyingly cheerful chap I'd love to strangle sometimes?"

"Left him at home, on the bedside table. I knew I forgot to pack something." As much as Paul hated to admit it, John was - once again - very effectively pulling him out of his self-imposed chagrin. How did he do that, anyway?

"Well, ask someone to put him in the post, son! I'm supposed to be the nasty, ill-tempered, cocked-up one, remember? I can't have you moving in on my territory, so you just stick to being the perpetually upbeat one from now on or I'll have no choice but to take some drastic measures."

As much as he tried, Paul couldn't prevent the giggles that were starting to bubble up from coming out. He didn't even know what he was laughing about, really. Probably himself and his overly dramatic display of self-pity. John was right, it wasn't like him at all to dwell of crap he couldn't change anyway. Didn't mean he'd start to like being where he was because he knew bloody well he never would, but at least he could try and be himself.

He realised probably woke up the entire barracks, but once he started laughing, he couldn't stop. If anything, John's infectious cackles only made it worse. Or better, maybe. It felt good to let go of that tension. Just as Paul seemed to regain his composure, someone cursed at them from inside the dormitory, pushing them both into a renewed fit of hysterical giggles.

When he managed to sort himself out, Paul groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Christ, John... I can't believe I just said all that stuff. I'm sorry for making you listen to it, mate."

"Don't be. We all have a dark side, Paul." John wiped the tears from his cheeks with one hand, and draped the other around Paul's shoulders, giving him a friendly squeeze. "You just hide yours better than most people, but it's bound to surface sometimes. I'm just surprised you allowed me to see it."

"Yeah well, that's what you get for making me trust you, you know." He adopted a thick American accent and said theatrically, "Specially selected for you, Macca Deluxe version: with extra personality traits! Bonus material includes temper tantrums, crying spells, fits of rage, and much more. It's the deal of a lifetime."

"I'll have to think on it a bit." John adopted a semi-serious frown as if he was trying to figure out the mysteries of the universe. "Does it also include guitar lessons? I can't keep playing banjo chords, can I?"

"Sure, if you want," Paul chuckled, "but they might not be compatible with the extreme drunkenness feature."

John pulled a disappointed face. "Can I get the old version back, then?"

"Sorry, it's non-refundable. You're stuck with it."

"I guess I'll have to make do, then, won't I?"

"It's a drag, but you'll survive." For a moment, Paul listened to the sounds coming from the dorm which told him people were getting up. The stars had disappeared from the rapidly lightening sky now, and he could see three men marching towards the main entrance. Any minute, the bugle player would sound Reveille and the flag would be raised, marking the start of yet another day. Somehow, the thought of that wasn't as daunting to Paul as it had been an hour earlier when he'd got out of bed. This time, it was his turn to nudge his knee against John's. "You were right, you know. It is a good thing you're around. This place would be unbearable if I didn't have you to talk to."

"Yer soft," John muttered, wrapping an arm around Paul's shoulders just like he had a few minutes before, only this time he left it there. "I'm glad to have you too."

Chuckling, Paul returned the gesture. "Yer soft."

"As a kitten," John nodded, "but don't tell anyone, or I'll have to kill you in yer sleep."

Paul leant into John for a second. "Yer barmy, you know that?"

"Look who's talkin'!"

"Who, me? I'm not crazy."

John snorted, removing his arm so he could stand up to stretch. "No, you're just crackers."

"Big difference, you know."

John offered Paul a hand and pulled him to his feet. "Aye. And you said everyone in the army was the same..."

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

How Paul had managed to change his mood so fast, John hadn't a clue, but he appeared to be as cheerful as ever: all smiles and jokes, lighting up the room with his quirky antics. John could only hope it was genuine, but somehow he doubted there wasn't, at least, a bit of bitterness lingering underneath that grin. He knew all too well what it was like to feel as down as Paul had that morning. That wasn't the kind of hurt you could simply switch off at will. Especially that bit about being hit; that sort of thing left scars on the soul, no matter how many reasons you could think of to justify it.

He had been utterly taken aback by Paul's raw honesty. The only other times he had allowed John to look into his soul was when they talked and cried about their mothers and when he'd spoken about nearly becoming a dad at seventeen. He hated to admit it, but even then he had been convinced that Paul had it easy compared to him. Now, he wasn't so sure anymore. The lad hid it well, but John was now thoroughly aware that he was carrying around an immense amount of pain. Unlike him, he kept it bottled up for the most part. And then there were those rare moments when he let his guard down and allowed bits of that hurt to come out. Or, as was the case that day, a lot of it.

John didn't know how anyone could push away their feelings like that. He never really kept anything inside. If he was angry, he shouted or beat someone to a pulp. If he was sad, he cried or drowned his anguish in alcohol. If John Lennon was unhappy, the world was sure to find out. But not Paul. He stashed it away, buried it below layers of optimism, wit, and beaming smiles. Who knew what else he kept hidden in there. John hoped, for Paul's sake, that there weren't any more secrets. But he no longer assumed he had it that much worse than Paul.

For a brief moment, John thought something was wrong again. It was right after they trooped into the room where they were going to get first aid lessons. He had expected Paul to move to the front, what with him being good at that kind of stuff. However, he hung back a bit, as if he was trying to become invisible. It felt off, but John couldn't worry about it for very long, because not three minutes after they arrived, their instructor arrived.

Before anyone had time to be surprised by the fact that the man was a civilian, he launched into a speech that forced John's attention away from Paul. The extremely tall, bulky bloke had a voice that didn't suit him at all. It was rather high and he spoke so fast, John had to suppress a giggle. But soon, he found himself completely captivated by the man's animated monologue.

"Good evening, gentlemen, and welcome to First Aid. My name is Alan Hooper, your instructor for this course. Eight weeks from now, you will leave this place for your summer holiday. I suggest you all make the most of your summer holiday because your second year will be vastly more demanding than the first. Not everyone is going to graduate but regardless of how well you do on your final exams, you will all be enlisted as reserves for five years. None of this will come as news to you, but it bears repeating."

Some of the lads groaned. Apparently, Paul wasn't the only one less than keen to be in the army.

"It is my sincerest hope that none of you will ever find yourselves on the fields of battle. However, being in the army means more than being a soldier. It also gives you a certain social responsibility. Being an army man means serving the public. In your role as reserves, you will also be called upon to handle different types of crises, such as the aftermath of natural disasters, ending severe riots, and any such time extraordinary circumstances arise which require the armed forces to come to aid. Offering humanitarian help is just as much, if not more, a key element of your role as a member or reserve of the British Army."

"Your responsibilities do not end when you take off your uniforms. Even in your free time, you are expected to be an exemplary member of society. We can only hope that even after you can no longer be called upon by the army, you will continue to be a force for good in your respective communities. There is great honour in helping those in desperate straits. And that, gentlemen, brings us to why you are in this room."

"Over the next eight weeks, you will learn the most fundamental first aid techniques. We will touch upon a wide variety of smaller and larger injuries; from treating different kinds of blisters to bracing broken limbs. From helping someone overcome a fainting spell to saving a life by means of keeping circulation going until professional help arrives. We will begin this course with the latter. Today, you will be learning Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, also known as CPR. The objective is to provide you with enough practical knowledge to not only be able to help an injured comrade in times of war, but even more importantly, to be able to help civilians in distress in times of peace."

By his changed stance, John could tell the speech was over. To his left, he could see Paul slinking back a bit more. He wondered why and was just about to ask him when their instructor spoke again.

"As I already mentioned," he said, at a somewhat slower speed this time, which made it a lot easier to catch what he was saying, "we will be discussing CPR today. How many of you are already able to perform this potentially lifesaving procedure?"

Nobody raised a hand or gave any indication of being acquainted with the method. "No one?"

John moved closer to Paul and hissed, "Do you know this stuff?"

"Yeah, I've done a course," he muttered back, arms still crossed firmly across his chest.

"Then why don’t you put yer hand up?"

Leaning in a bit closer, Paul chuckled, "you'll see."

Despite their attempts at keeping the noise down, their little back and forth hadn't gone unnoticed. A few blokes looked in their direction and mr Hooper raised his voice, saying, "Alright, if everyone can be quiet? I will need a volunteer to demonstrate what we’ll be doing today. Then, you will pair up and practice on each other."

Left and right, lads were casting glances at each other as if to say, 'I don't care what you do, but I'm not volunteering.' A slight murmur was starting to fill the silence until a familiar voice pierced right through the reluctant mutters. John, who'd been looking around, nearly jumped out of his skin when Paul piped up. "Sir, why don’t we practice on dummies? Isn’t that easier, and safer, and well, erm.... less awkward?"

The moment Paul spoke, the other blokes had fallen silent, making it very easy for the instructor to determine who'd made that comment. "Well, looks like we have someone here who does know a thing or two about it. Mr... McCartney, is it? Why don’t you come up here and demonstrate the technique to your peers?"

Paul looked about ready to kick himself, and John still had no idea why he was behaving the way he was. Sure, he wasn't going to volunteer either, but Paul knew this stuff and he rarely missed a chance to show off his skills, so why the reluctance now? "I don't know if I feel comfortable doing that, sir. A dummy would..."

"Yes, yes, you've made your point," the bloke interrupted. "Now hear mine. Practising on a dummy is well and good, but how will you know how a human body responds to it if you never tested it? Any situation where you need this knowledge will be stressful. Knowing exactly what to expect will dramatically increase the chance of survival. Therefore, we will all practice on each other. Now, you were chatting to private Lennon just now. Would you consider him a friend?"

"Yes."

The older man smiled encouragingly. "And would you hesitate to apply CPR if he needed it?"

"No, of course not," Paul huffed, eliciting some giggles from the other lads.

"Good. Now, this is important. Mr Lennon, do you trust your friend?"

John hadn't expected to be addressed, but the answer came without thinking anyway. "Unconditionally."

"That settles it, then. Mr Lennon, if you’ll join us up here. Everyone else, please form pairs with the person you trust most." As twenty-eight blokes shuffled around, finding their best mates and figuring out who should be teaming up with whom in order to make sure nobody was left to practice with someone they disliked, their instructor raised his voice above the murmur, which promptly died down.

"Being able to relax and have confidence in each other is crucial, as this exercise can be rather uncomfortable and potentially harmful. Mr Lennon, you will need to bare your chest for this so if you would do that and then lie down, please," the instructor said as John, with Paul trailing behind him, made his way to the centre of the room.

There wasn't even anything to lie down on, John thought ruefully. The least they could've done was provide some bed rolls, right? Not that those provided any comfort whatsoever, but it was the thought that counted, he supposed. He threw Paul a questioning glance, but he just shrugged whilst that Alan bloke kept talking, either oblivious to, or not interested in John's objections to stretching out on a cold, hard, and possibly filthy floor.

"Mr McCartney, you will demonstrate the procedure whilst I tell your colleagues what they’re seeing and what they should pay attention to. Once we’ve covered every aspect, we’ll take questions and then you'll practice on each other. Next week, we will revise this lesson, and we will reverse the roles. Understood? Very well. We'll take this very slowly. Ready, gentlemen? Please go ahead and show us the first step."

Rather uncomfortable, the man said. Talk about understatements, John thought to himself. Unbuttoning his shirt in front of everyone was enough of an embarrassment, to begin with. Being naked in the shower with a bunch of blokes was one thing; people didn't tend to pay much attention to each other in there and if they did, it was usually for a laugh, like when he had wiggled his arse for everyone to see, that time the mud had literally got everywhere. But now, thirty people would have their eyes fixed on his chest, and he didn't really warm to the idea. Why was that step necessary, anyway?

Realising Paul's hands would be all over him, didn't help matters much, either. A hug or some other friendly gesture, fine. John didn't mind that. Touching was good, normally speaking. But this was just a little too intimate to be comfortable, even though he realised it was just a mechanical thing, something that wasn't meant to be anything but a medical procedure.

To his dismay, John soon found out it could get worse. Much worse. Bad enough to make him forget to feel awkward about being half undressed. No matter how slowly or carefully it was done, having his sternum pressed down was fucking painful. It hurt even more than that pinch to his shoulder which had inspired him to share his favourite Scouse profanities with the group, who all seemed to think it funny. Well, not all. Paul, who was apologising profusely even though he'd done nothing wrong, clearly didn't think it was anything to laugh about. John was told to relax because supposedly, it would hurt less that way. Maybe it did, but it never got to the point where he'd consider taking it up as a hobby. And still, the worst was yet to come....

"When you apply CPR, you will perform chest compressions with a speed of one hundred to one hundred and twenty beats per minute. Once you have done thirty, you will immediately follow up with breathing into the patient's lungs twice. Supplying air is crucial; without it, the brain and internal organs would suffer irreparable damage. Remember this: there is no use in keeping the circulation going if the blood is deprived of oxygen. Mr McCartney, please demonstrate the correct way of applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

That certainly caught John's attention. "What?"

Paul groaned quietly, but loud enough that John could hear. "I'm sure the lads get the gist of it... Is a demonstration really necessary, sir?"

"Yes, mr McCartney, it is. There is a specific way of doing this. Get it wrong, and the patient will expire. Therefore, gentlemen, you will do as I say." Gone was the gentle, agreeable demeanour. The man was obviously very serious about teaching them properly. John just wasn't altogether sure he wanted to learn.

A few lads chuckled. John could guess who they were, and he swore to make them regret it if they had the gall to make fun of him later. Apparently, the mr Hooper noticed, too. "The first person to laugh or otherwise make a mockery of this very serious procedure will not only be made to practice this in front of the class, they will also receive a letter of misconduct in their personnel. I may not have a rank, but in this room, you will all answer to me. Do I make myself clear?"

From his spot on the floor, John could hear some disgruntled muttering, but the laughing stopped. If only the humiliated blush he could feel burning on his neck and cheeks would die off as easily. The only solace John could find was knowing he wasn't alone in this predicament. A quick glance to the side told him Paul was frantically chewing his bottom lip whilst his eyes kept darting off to some distant corner. He obviously wasn't feeling comfortable, either. "Mr Lennon, I would advise you to relax your midriff and not offer any resistance. Since your breathing is not compromised, you will feel the urge to hold your breath or exhale. Try not to give into it. Alright, go ahead."

No wonder Paul hadn't raised his hand earlier, John thought dejectedly as he surrendered to his fate. That was one question answered right there: Paul had known what to expect and had attempted to prevent this very situation from happening. Who could blame him? He didn't know what felt weirder: having air pushed into his lungs when his body wasn't ready to take a breath, or having Paul's lips pressed down on his own. When someone giggled despite the stern warning, John decided it was all equally mortifying. He could feel the redness spreading across his entire face, could hear his heart pounding a frantic rhythm in his ears. If it went on like that, he thought wryly, he'd no longer be pretending to need CPR.

He tried to think of a witty remark to defuse the awkwardness, but he came up with nothing. The more he tried to think of something else, the more he became aware that Paul was basically snogging him in front of their entire dorm. Well, not really, of course. It was just a medical thing. It wasn't in any way romantic. But still, it sort of felt that way, it was still the sensation of lips on lips. Which he'd experienced before, months ago during that card game, but that was different too. The contact lasted a lot longer and was a lot... Well... A lot more like the real thing, even if it really wasn't. John didn't know why his mind was taking him into that train of thought but he couldn't help but think that if this was any indication of the kind of kisser Paul was...

Not that he had any intentions of finding that out, of course. It was just the mortification playing tricks with his mind. At least, he comforted himself, he wasn't the only one feeling terribly embarrassed. Perhaps they'd be able to laugh about it some day. Perhaps, though, they'd be better off pretending it never happened at all...

-*-

For the past five - or ten? - minutes, John had been listening to Adams, but he barely registered a thing he'd said. He knew the bloke was telling him he needed glasses and asking stuff about his experiences, but most of it went in one ear, and out the other. John honestly tried to focus on the conversation, but his attention kept drifting to that lonely-looking kid out there. He was standing not far from the door, invisible to Paul though he could see his friend quite well. Of course, he could. He had, after all, chosen his location carefully.

Paul was in the same spot John had found him that morning, except this time he had turned sideways to face the last rays of sunlight. He leant back against the bannister with closed eyes, his left foot on the top step, lower arm resting casually on a bony knee. He'd stretched out his other leg so that anyone wishing to get into the dorm, or out of it, would have to either step over him or use the other steps around the side of the building.

Some time ago, Paul had started when his foot slipped down a step. Apparently, he'd nodded off or something. He'd looked a bit dazed for a moment and then shrugged it off, leaving his foot where is was, on that lower step. It looked somewhat uncomfortable to John, but Paul didn't seem bothered. The only limb he had moved since that moment was his right hand, which sometimes would come up to rub his slightly sunburnt nose. He looked rather knackered, John thought. Not entirely surprising, considering he'd been up since five. Stupid git.

He was just about to go and check if Paul wasn't having any more of those depressing thoughts when Neil showed up. By then, John wasn't listening to John - Adams, that was - at all anymore. He was too busy trying to hear what his two mates were saying to each other. "Alright, Paul?"

"Hey Neil," the addressed replied, not moving an inch. Even his eyes remained closed.

"You okay?"

Paul nodded, visibly stifling a yawn. "Just tired. Long day, you know."

The blond-haired lad appeared to be satisfied with the answer but to John, he still looked agitated. "Oh good, I thought... Is John around?"

"He should be in there somewhere," Paul said, gesturing in the direction of the dorm. "I can go find him if you want."

"No, that's alright. I think I prefer just discussing this with you."  
Well, that piqued John's curiosity. Apparently, it did Paul's too. He opened his eyes and everything.

"Discuss what?"

"Don't get yer knickers in a twist, Paul, but there's this rumour going 'round in my dorm that I wanted to ask you about." Neil hesitated, looking rather nervous, but then he exclaimed, "they're saying you kissed John."

Paul's eyebrows flew up so high, they nearly touched his hairline. "What? Who says that?"

"Some bloke, who's got a friend in your dorm or something. Apparently, everyone saw it?"

"Oh, I kissed John alright. They do call it the kiss of life, right?" Neil looked shocked, but Paul just shook his head, laughing. "CPR, Neil. We had first aid today, and the instructor made me demonstrate it. John was just playing the victim, that's all."

"Oh..."

"Yeah. We were both fucking embarrassed about it, you know. I was afraid someone would take the piss." He shrugged, relaxing into the bannister once more. "Someone always goes for the low-hanging fruit. Easier than coming up with a good joke, I guess."

John could see the relief washing over Neil. He didn't know why it annoyed him. Why would someone get all up in arms over something like that, anyway? Neil wasn't stupid, he could've sussed it out on his own rather than make a fuss over something that didn't even happen and, even if it had, was none of his business. Apparently, Nell thought it was. "Well, I'm glad that's sorted. I mean, it didn't sound like you, but you never know, right? We haven't had first aid yet. It's on our schedule for tomorrow. At least, I'll know what we'll get."

"One piece of advice: when they ask who knows the technique, keep yer gob shut," Paul grinned. "Don't mention dummies. In fact, don't say anything at all. Just stay in the back and play dumb, or they'll be saying the same thing about you, this time tomorrow."

"I'll keep that in mind. So, what do we do about those idiots saying that stuff?"

Paul leant back, allowing his eyes to fall shut again after a massive yawn. "Anything you like, Neil. Have some fun at their expense. Anyone mental enough to think something like that could happen in a place like this deserves to be made fun of"

"Fair enough, I'll be sure to have 'em on, then," he snorted. "Alright, I better go. Good night, Paul."

"See ya, Neil."

With Neil out of sight, John excused himself from Adams, who still hadn't noticed he stopped listening minutes earlier and headed out to talk to Paul. "You handled that well."

Paul started when John unceremoniously crashed down at his side, but the instant he saw who the person was that nearly landed in his lap, his face broke into a cheeky, knowing smile. "John! I didn't notice you. Were you eavesdropping?"

"Yep."

"Why didn't you come out and say hi to Neil?"

"I would've done, except he said he wanted to talk to you," John pointed out. "So, I let him. Besides, I would've got brassed off with the conversation anyway. You know how I get when people say that kind of stuff."

"Yeah, my head and I have a lingering recollection of that." Paul guffawed and rubbed his head. "Oh, the weather's going to change, by the way. Feels like we'll get rain, and loads of it."

"Good to know. I'll get my wellies out." A violent shiver racked through John's body. In the shadow, where he was sat, it was more than a little chilly whereas Paul's spot, in the last rays of sunlight, looked a lot warmer. "Hey, move over, son, stop hogging the good spot."

As it turned out, it was bloody cold in the sun as well, but John didn't mind too much. It was nicer sitting side by side anyway. They sat in silence for a minute or so when Paul sighed and put his head on John's shoulder.

"Comfy?"

"Of course," Paul grinned, underlining his point by installing himself onto his human pillow a bit more thoroughly.

The whole thing was rather amusing, but there was one thing John just had to know. "Are you alright, Macca?"

"I'm fine, John. Just knackered, as you undoubtedly heard me explain to Neil." John couldn't see his face, but he could hear the smile in Paul's voice when he jested, "It's hard work you know, kissing you n'dat."

John grinned and planted a kiss on the top of Paul's head. "There, now they can say I kissed you back."

"Lovely. That's our reputation set, then." He shivered a bit, unsurprisingly. The sun had moved behind the buildings now, so the little bit of heat it provided was gone. "Why don't we go in and start on those guitar lessons, shall we?"

"It can wait if yer too tired."

"I think I can manage, John." He slapped his hand hard on John's knee and sprang to his feet. Come on, Johnny boy, let's hear you play me a song."


	16. Tell Me What You See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oo-er, things are happening! D'you want them to continue happening? Then leave me some love because as you know: all you need is love...

**26 May 1961**

 

**Paul**

 

"How am I ever going to fit all of this in there?"

Paul stared dejectedly at the contents of his wardrobe. In just an hour, he was supposed to be marching to the train station, along with every last piece of crap he managed to acquire in the past ten and a half months. So far, he'd packed about half of it, and his duffel bag was nearly full. It was beginning to look like he'd have to start over because there was no way he'd be able to squeeze the rest of his things in there unless he refolded everything and packed it as tightly as possible. And even then, it'd be next to impossible to make it all fit. To his right, John appeared to be facing the same conundrum.

"Why did I bring four books? I'm going to need an extra bag. When did I bring these jeans? This will never work!" John's comments, which had started as a few whispers here and there, had got increasingly desperate and noticeably louder with each passing minute. Eventually, he stopped muttering to himself and addressed Paul. "Hey Macca, can you fit some of these in with your stuff?"

"Didn't you hear me, John? I don't even have..." Paul interrupted himself to forcefully try and shove a jumper into a gap that wasn't nearly large enough for the bulky garment. The frustration found its way into his voice when he pulled the ghastly thing out again and looked for something smaller to cram in the tiny opening. "...room for all of my own crap, let alone yours."

"Alright," John grumbled, "keep yer shirt on."

"Forget about keeping this one on. The way this is going, I'll end up wearing three more. In fact, that might not even be the worst idea," he muttered, considering it for a moment until a drop of sweat trickling down his neck reminded him of the muggy heat. "Then again, I'd rather not drop dead in the middle of the street. Bit messy that, you know?"

"At least you'd make a good-looking corpse, mate."

"There's that. Still... I don't think it'd be appreciated," Paul grinned, tugging at a piece of fabric that seemed malleable enough to help even things out a bit. "Hang on, this isn't even mine. Whose... John, is this yours?"

A flustered-looking John emerged from the wardrobe in which he'd half buried himself to get his secret stash of sweets out of the farthest corner. "Yeah, it is. I've been looking for that. What's it doing in your locker?"

"How should I know? Here, take it." Paul held the shirt out to John, who made no attempt whatsoever to take it from him.

"Can't you stick it in with your things?"

"No bloody way, mate. Your civvies, your problem. I've got enough issues of my own to deal with, you know." With an air of finality, he flung the garment back its rightful owner and returned his attention to his own logistical problem. Where did all of this stuff come from, anyway? How much of it wasn't even his? It was Scout camp all over again: by the time it was over, everyone would miss half their things and arrive home with at least three items that didn't belong to them. And they were crazy things, too.

Once, Mike had come back with one - not a pair mind you, just one - swimming fin in his bag and now, five years later, they still didn't know whose it had been. Definitely not theirs, though. Neither of them had ever owned a pair. Paul supposed it still lived in the 'found objects' box, along with all the other things that never got claimed by their owners. That same year, Paul had managed to lose his bath towel, and somehow managed to get home with two unfamiliar ones, as well as somebody's plimsolls. Bloody useless, of course, They weren't even the right size.

Forcing himself back into the present, Paul scanned the pile of things he'd somehow have to take with him to Liverpool. "Who would've thought going home would be this big an ordeal?"

"Why do we have to take everything with us anyway," John complained, repeating the question he had already asked several times. "We'll be back in a few weeks anyway."

"As if you don't know."

John scowled stubbornly in a very good impression of a disgruntled five-year-old. The only thing that could've perfected it was either stomping his feet, preferably whilst lying on the floor, or crying hysterically. Thankfully, John did neither of those things. It would've been far too entertaining if he had, and then nobody would finish packing in time. "I don't want to know. What if they'll stick us in different dorms?"

"Fuck if I know, John. It'd be a drag but what can we do about that? I doubt it'd go over very well if we went to the Badge and said, 'Oh sir, me best mate and I want to stay in the same dorm.' We're not five, you know." He shot John a witting glance that said 'though we behave like we are all the time' and turned back to the task at hand, grumbling, "Now shut up, I'm trying to figure out a way to make this fit."  
  
"Good luck with that."

Paul shook his head in dismay. "We're fucked."

"You can say that again," John muttered.

"We're fucked."

"Good lad!"

Paul stood there for a few moments, chewing his lip, more or less hoping everything would walk into the bag on its own accord. Oddly enough, it didn't. Then, sighing heavily, he grabbed the bottom of his duffel and gave it a good shake, scattering its entire contents all over the floor. Using perhaps a bit more force that necessary, he started re-packing as tightly as he possibly could. He was sweating profusely and swearing like a sailor by the time he was done, but he ended with a cry of victory. With just three minutes to spare before they would have to depart, Paul managed to finish packing and closed his bag. Admittedly, he had cheated by stuffing some of the smaller things into his boots and guitar case, but he was all set and ready to go.

Even John had managed to come up with a plan, which for the most part involved looking around him and copying the packing techniques of his peers, and winging it where their possessions didn't match up. Instead of trying to fit his books in, he removed the laces from his hobnail boots and tied them around the books in such a way that it formed a parcel he could carry around by the strings.

"Alright, let's go," John grinned, hauling the oversized bag onto his shoulder with one hand and grabbing his guitar case and book parcel with the other. He wouldn't be able to salute anyone or shake anyone's hand but knowing John, he couldn't possibly care less at that point; a sentiment heartily echoed by Paul, who followed John's example and followed him out of the building into the blistering sun. The walk to the train would be hellish, but there was a silver lining: he was headed north, to spend several wonderful weeks at home. He'd survived the first half of the training. From that moment on, it was a matter of counting down to the end.

 

**-*-**

 

**Ringo**

 

He'd been itching to share the news ever since he heard it that morning, but he didn't just want to announce it. It had to be cleverly worked into the conversation and so far, Richard hadn't found a way yet. He really wanted to have some fun with it but they were only an hour from Liverpool now and he was getting restless. If a chance to surprise his mates wouldn't arise soon, he'd just go and say it. Either way, he'd break the news before they got off the train.

To his left, Neil was hidden behind a newspaper. Apparently, there was a lot happening in the world because they'd seen hide nor hair of him for the past hour. Across from him, John and Paul had their guitars out. They'd started out just taking song requests, but that was two hours ago, right after they all grew tired of their usual card game which, as per usual, Richard kept winning. Eventually, after they'd run out of songs and Neil had buried himself in The Guardian, they had started discussing and playing something they apparently thought of themselves. It sounded nice, but he felt the words were a bit off.

"Lads," Richard started carefully, hoping not to step on any toes - specifically John's because he was quite sure Paul could take a bit of criticism, "I think it's a fab song, but what about the grammar? I mean, Love Me Do, what does that mean?"

From behind the paper, Neil suddenly piped up, causing Ringo to jump. "Turn it 'round, Rings."

"What? That doesn't make sense, mate." It took him a moment or two to actually figure out what the words sounded like backwards. "'Od em evol'? That doesn't even mean anything."

"Not the letters! The words," Neil grinned once everyone stopped laughing, lowering the paper to flash a lopsided smile at him. "Reverse them. It's one of Paul's little jokes. Haven't heard that one in years," he continued, shifting his attention from Richard to the junior member of their group. "Have you changed something? It sounds different."

"Yeah, John came up with that 'someone to love, someone like you' bit in the middle," Paul nodded, one of his signature smiles plastered all over his face. "It didn't have that before."

By then, Ringo was grinning. Now that he figured it out, he thought it was quite a clever play on words. "Do Me, Love....I get it. Cheeky bastards!"

John cackled loudly. "If you think that's risky, you should hear one of the other songs we came up with. Leaves much less to the imagination, see?"

"Do I want to know?"

"We won't play it now anyway," Paul said with a finality in his voice that brooked no denial. "We're saving it for the Christmas variety show."

December seemed an awfully long way away. It was only May, after all. Paul didn't seriously think of practising for seven months to put on a fifteen-minute show, did he? Richard was aware that John still needed a lot of help with his chords but he'd improved so fast that unless they were going to play a classical masterpiece, he should be able to do just fine with what he already knew. Still, it wasn't his decision to make and Richard reckoned they probably had their reasons for practising early. Still, it was nice to hear they were going to participate at all. "Oh, you're going to sign up for that, are you? Gear! Do you need a drummer, by any chance?"

"Why would you play your own songs, Paul?" Neil's comment got muttered from behind the paper in which he had once again immersed himself. "Can't you just do 'Ooh! My Soul' or something? Everyone knows those, and they'll love your Little Richard impression. They'll go over better, I reckon. No offence, mate."

"Not very original, that," Paul shrugged. "I nearly always do that kind of songs, so why not give 'em something different, you know. John and me sort of just started writing stuff so we thought it'd be a laugh to play some of our own. And by the way, we'd love adding a drummer to the lineup, wouldn't we, John?"

"Yeah, do you know any, Richie?" He flashed one of his signature cripple faces and went on to add, "We might start a band next year. You know, do a bit of busking, or play in a pub sometime. To break out of the drag of working the factories six days a week."

By the look on Paul's face, he was sceptical about that particular plan. Probably hadn't even heard it before, or that tell-tale eyebrow wouldn't have gone up the way it did, but Richard supposed they'd have to settle that amongst themselves. If they did start a group, he wouldn't be able to be in it, anyway. For now, though, he already had a good idea what kind of rhythm would suit the song he'd just heard. "Well, I think it sounds great, lads. "Why don't you sing a few tunes at my birthday party? You'll come, won't you?"

"Sure, love to," Paul beamed.

"Me too," Neil nodded. "Where is it?"

"Oh, just the pub at the end of my street. I'd do it at home, except you can't even swing a cat in there."

John looked up from the chord he was trying to perfect. "Which date, Richie? I might have to fight me aunt over it first. I mean, I'll definitely come, but it's easier if she agrees, right? Less glowering and all that."

"Not for another six weeks," Ringo assured him, suddenly fighting back some giggles at the mental image of John and his aunt having a boxing match over whether or not John was allowed to go out. "It's the seventh of July, a Friday night, so you'll have all weekend to recover from the hangover."

To his surprise, Paul's face fell and he groaned loudly. "The seventh of July? Oo-er, I may not be able to make it."

"You just said you would," John reminded him with a tinge of acid in his voice.

"Yeah, but that's my dad's birthday. I don't know if he'll allow me to go out. He doesn't like me buggering off when the rellies come to visit."

"Are you sure it's the same day?"

Paul rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. "I've known the bloke for a while, John. I think I know when his birthday is." He turned to face Ringo. "I'll try, though. I'll tell him it's yer twenty- first, surely that should count for something. You know, officially becoming an adult n'dat."

"It better!" Suddenly, he saw his chance. "You could always say you were ordered to attend the party."

He nearly cracked up laughing over the way Paul blinked at him, looking rather befuddled. "Ordered? By whom?"

"Me."

"Okay, but." The penny clearly hadn't dropped with Paul yet. "We're the same rank. You can't give us orders. Can you?"

"Not now," Ringo deadpanned, "but I can after the first of July."

He could see the cogs turning in John's head, and Paul was slowly starting to figure it out, but Neil was the first to add two and two. A good thing it was, too, because he really couldn't hold back his excitement any longer. Everyone's attention shifted to Neil when he just about dropped his newspaper. "Are you telling us yer getting your stripes, Richie?"

"Yep."

"That's great! Congratulations, mate," Paul cheered, a sentiment that was immediately echoed by Neil.

"About bloody time," John added to the congratulatory handshakes, back pats, and smiles.

Richard could understand why John would say that, but in reality, it hadn't taken that long at all. In fact, it was right on schedule and he'd half been expecting to get the news before the end of the year anyway. "I've only been in service for four years now, John. Anyway, they told me this morning. Mum's dead chuffed! We're combining the celebration with my birthday, so you have to come, Paul. It's going to be wild!"

"I'll do my best, mate," he promised as a cheeky twinkle appeared in his eyes. "So, does this mean we have to salute you, then, Lance Corporal Starkey?"

"Only if you never want me to talk to you again, Paul. Seriously lads, don't do that. Ever. You're my mates. Besides, I'm pretty sure you're not required to do, anyway. It's not a high enough rank."

"Well, it's great either way, Richie!" Neil slapped him hard on the back again, for what seemed - and felt - like the fifth time.

"Cheers. So you'll all be there?"

John took it upon himself to answer for everyone. "Of course, we wouldn't miss it for the world."

 

**-*-**

 

**One week later**

 

**John**

 

A short rap on the back door which was open to let in some air, made John look up from his magazine to see a familiar figure in an unfamiliar outfit hovering just outside the kitchen. "Eh up, John."

"Alright, Macca. Come on in, son. Tea?"

"Love some, ta'." Paul propped his guitar up in the corner and plopped down at the dinner table.

John put the kettle on the hob and searched for some tea bags, noticing they were nearly out. As he scribbled down a reminder on the shopping list Mimi had started earlier, he initiated a bit of small talk with Paul, who appeared to be reading the article on Buddy Holly he'd been finishing just a minute earlier. Considering good old Buddy wasn't making any new music anymore, what with him being dead and all, it was a bit of a depressing article. Apparently, they were going to release some more of the stuff he'd recorded before his death but so far, it had left John less than impressed and did little to preserve the legacy. Apparently, going by the disappointed noises he made, Paul wasn't reading anything interesting, either. "All settled in at home, then?"

"Yeah, it's good to be back. You know, have all of my things around, wear my own clothes. Although," he grinned, releasing the magazine in favour of plucking at his T-shirt, "I really need to get myself some new stuff. This is getting ridiculous."

John scrutinised the garment. It did seem a bit too tight around Paul's upper torso though he wouldn't go so far as to say it looked ridiculous; more like something that used to fit perfectly before its wearer grew an inch or two and gained some muscle mass. Alright, a lot of muscle mass. The way the material hugged the lad's arms, shoulders, and chest looked rather good if he was brutally honest about it.

Knowing Paul, he was likely to be aware of it, too. John couldn't be entirely sure, of course, as it was only the second time he'd ever seen Paul wearing something that wasn't provided by the British Army, but it looked a bit too perfect to be a fluke. After all, it wasn't like the whole ensemble of a black T-shirt tucked into tight, light blue jeans paired with a wide, black leather belt and a pair of simple trainers didn't accentuate all his best assets. Not that John could blame him; if he looked like that, he'd flaunt himself without a moment's hesitation too.

As it was, he had settled for a less form-fitting look. His white jeans weren't baggy by any means, but not nearly as narrow as Paul's and though his dark blue top - the one that had somehow ended up in Paul's locker - used to be a lot looser, it didn't quite accentuate his muscles the way his mate's shirt did his, due to the fact that the thing had always been a size too large anyway. John realised it might be a bit too warm for sleeves and a turtleneck, but it was his favourite outfit, so it would have to do.

They did seem to have similar taste in footwear, though, he summarised. His plimsolls were a different colour: blue, as opposed to John's black ones, but they were basically the same. Shaking his head in amusement of what he perceived as Paul's thinly veiled display of vanity, he grabbed some cups and reached for the biscuits. "You can always borrow something of mine if it bothers ye to be exposed like that, Macca. I've got plenty of stuff that'd fit you just fine."

"No, that's alright, John," he replied quickly.

Of course, he wouldn't take him up on the offer, John thought. He probably put on the tightest stuff he could find, to begin with. "Thought you might say that," he smirked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all," John said, reaching for a pair of clean mugs. "Just that I already reckoned you wouldn't be interested in changing into something less accentuating."

"Oh."

To his surprise, Paul did that thing where his eyes seemed to droop whilst he ever so slightly tilted his head to the left. As always, it was just a fleeting thing, a brief moment of involuntarily revealing an emotion he didn't want to show. John was sure Paul wasn't even aware of doing it, and within the blink of an eye, his face had taken on a neutral - or rather, aloof - expression. But he'd seen it and he recognised it as hurt, not that it made much sense.

"Oh, don't give me that crap, Macca. You didn't expect me to believe that 'I haven't got anything else to wear' nonsense, did ye?"

"Well, I don't. Nothing for this kind of weather, anyway. I don't have piles of clothes to choose from, you know." He picked at his nails, seemingly at odds with himself, before muttering, "but cheers for once again doubting my intentions, John."

"Fucking hell! Must you be such a bird about everything, Paul? Fine, I'll believe you," he shrugged. "But if you really don't have anything that fits, why did you say no when I said you could wear something of mine?"

"Because I don't need charity, alright?"

The way he averted his eyes and brought up his hand to bite his thumbnail told John Paul hadn't intended to say that last bit, and that he was feeling embarrassed by his candour. The gesture was even more revealing than the words, John thought. Of course, he could have known it would be a pride thing. What else was new?

"I didn't mean it bad, Paul," he muttered. Hoping to appeal to Paul's soft side, he added, "I'm sorry if it came across like that, yeah?"

He couldn't keep himself from wondering why they found themselves caught up in those kinds of misunderstandings so often, but the kettle whistled before he could get too caught up in the thought. Rather than push the matter, he focused on pouring out the water and fixing the tea just right, drawing out the process as long as he could, hoping Paul would have recomposed himself by the time he was done.

"Oh, hello! Who are you then?"

John whipped his head around, taken by surprise at the sudden change in Paul's voice. He knew the kid could change his mood fast, but that had to be a personal record. He'd gone from being heavily insulted to sounding positively enamoured in what; thirty seconds? And people called John fickle... It didn't take him long to discover what or who Paul was cooing at: his cat had entered the room and was weaving around Paul's legs with his bushy tail straight up in the air, purring up a storm.

"That's Tim," he explained, gratefully embracing the change of mood. "He doesn't really warm up to people very quickly. He must see something in you. D'you like cats?"

"Sure, love 'em. I kind of prefer dogs, but cats are cool, you know. We used to have one when Mike and I were little. Died years ago, though." Paul abandoned his seat and squatted down to run his hands through the long, ginger and white fur, whilst singsonging the same kind of stupid shite John would say to his cat all the time.

Funny how that worked, John mused. Most men wouldn't be caught dead making those noises or saying those things but the moment an animal or a baby came into view, even the toughest blokes instantly turned into the biggest pansies. Paul was no different in that regard. He clearly knew exactly what to say and where to scratch in order to win Timmy's eternal adoration. Addressing John, he added in his normal voice, "this isn't the one in the picture you had at the barracks, is it?"

"No, that's a different one," he confirmed. "I rescued him, you know. Tim, I mean. Found him in the snow when he was just a kitten. Poor bugger would've died if I hadn't brought him home. He must think I'm his mum or something, he rarely goes up to anyone else. I think he loves you, though," he laughed, as Tim put his paws on Paul's knee and pushed the top of his head against the lad's face. John was going to explain it was his way of begging for kisses, but apparently, Paul already figured that out and he happily obliged. Soft lad.

"Well, I love you too, Timmy," he cooed, scratching the cat's cheeks with his forehead pressed against the top of Tim's skull.

"Alright, you daft sod," John chuckled, "get yer tea before it's cold and before that bag of fleas dribbles all over yer clothes. What did you have in mind for today?"

He looked up, eyes shining, all visible traces of the recent altercation gone. "It's lovely out, why don't we go to the park and practice there? Might even be able to do some busking. We're bound to raise enough for some lolly ice."

"You would, anyway."

"So would you, John." Paul reclaimed his chair, which technically was John's, but there was no way for him to know that since he'd never been to Mendips before, and took a big gulp of his drink. "You're great, you know."

"No, I don't know, actually. But it'll be fun anyway, won't it?" There was plenty more that John could've said about it, but he chose not to, remembering vividly how close to a row they'd got a few minutes earlier.

Truth be told, John didn't really feel all that comfortable playing for an audience yet. Not so much because he was too shy because that rarely stopped him from doing anything. But he hated the idea of looking like a bumbling fool compared to Paul, who churned out the most complicated riffs and solos without even thinking about it. What would people think - or more importantly, what would they say - of his musical prowess when he couldn't even do half the stuff Paul could? He'd never taken criticism lightly, and he couldn't very well react in his normal manner. Not if he wanted the day to be fun, in any case. Which he did. So, John finished his tea, waited for Paul to do the same, and dumped the empty mugs into the sink. The washing up could wait. "Alright, let's go, then."

Not much later, John locked the back door after waiting two full minutes for Timmy to make up his mind about whether he wanted to go outside or stay in. Guitar strapped across his back in much the same way as Paul, only in the opposite direction, John took a shortcut towards the park, where they went searching for a spot they could both agree upon. John preferred to sit somewhere a bit more secluded, whereas Paul was keen to go and play right by the pond, where most of the people were. In the end, they settled on a bench not far from the water, on one of the quieter paths. It was then that John noted a slight oversight.

"Didn't you say you wanted to try busking?"

"Yeah, I did," Paul replied, seemingly more focused on tuning his guitar than on John's question.

"And how are the people supposed to guess that?"

"Well, usually you just put your case...." He interrupted himself when the penny dropped and he looked up, grinning sheepishly. "I see what you mean."

"Right," John smirked, "so, what do you suggest?"

Paul looked around as if the answer was going to fall from a tree or something until he appeared to have come up with an idea. He felt around his pocket and with a triumphant smile, he pulled out a piece of cloth. "Ta-da!"

"A snot rag? You're joking."

"What? It's clean, you know."

"It had better be," he snorted, thinking how ironic it would be if they would blow it. The performance, that was.

"I'm open to suggestions if you have a better idea," Paul grinned, tauntingly waving the handkerchief about.

Of course, he didn't. John supposed he could have run home and got a hat or something. It would only take fifteen minutes or so, less if he rode his bike back, but he didn't feel like doing that. So, in the end, they used what they had. To John's surprise, they had only played three songs when a passerby stopped to listen. Up until that moment, the relatively few people that passed them had ignored their music altogether, but once that elderly bloke paused to watch the show, more people started to linger. It made him a bit nervous, being scrutinised like that, but Paul seemed to really soak up the attention.

When at long last the first shilling landed on their pitiful excuse for a tip jar, the bloody charmer smiled broadly and managed to squeeze a 'cheers!' into the lyrics. For the next thirty minutes or thereabouts, they'd have an audience of eight people or so on average, and though hardly anyone tossed them a coin, it wasn't hard to see they raised enough to buy more ice cream than they could eat. John was really starting to have fun with it and reckoned they'd probably get enough for a fry-up. He would've been happy to find out if a heckler hadn't shown up.

"Arr eh, lads! What's that noise supposed to be?" The middle-aged man looked around as if to seek support from other people, but continued his critique anyway when nobody chimed in. "Sinatra, Bennett, or Wilson not good enough for you lot anymore, are they? Or is it too difficult for yer? It's doin' me head in, this bloody ruckus. Noise pollution, that's what this is!"

A few people tried to shut the bloke up, but most just walked away, leaving John and Paul with hardly an audience. "It's rock and roll, sir, and I think they're really great," a pimply kid of about fifteen chirped before wisely walking away.

"Yeah, catch up with the times, la'," the old bloke who first stopped and never left piped up. "Ye can't expect these kids to play show tunes, like. Don't be an arl arse!"

By then, they'd wrapped up their rendition of Buddy Holly's 'Oh Boy', and sat waiting idly for the argument to stop, which it didn't. They just watched it unfold for a few moments until Paul leant forward and, in a conspiratorial tone, whispered, "Let's show this wanker what we can do, yeah? Do you know the chords to 'Till There Was You'?"

"No," John hissed back, "do you?"

"Yeah, it's one of my dad's favourites. I've played it loads of times with George," he nodded. "See if you can play along, or try a bit or harmony if you feel like it."

Playing along was one thing John didn't do, as he only knew two of the chords Paul played. But he did manage a nice harmony vocal, or, at least, he thought it sounded good, and they very effectively managed to shut their heckler up. The look on his face was priceless, John thought. It was clear he never saw that one coming. Then again, neither had he. How many more surprises did Paul have up his sleeve, anyway?

"There, happy now? Be a good lad and give these boys a bob or two before you bugger off," the old chap commanded. "That way, the rest of us can enjoy their music in peace."

The tanner that begrudgingly got added to their small fortune earned the man some more abuse from the boys' biggest fan, who went so far as to follow the heckler just to make sure he'd be heard but it left them in stitches. "I reckon we should keep that one," John laughed, picking up the coin and studying it. "It might bring us good fortune."

"It'll definitely make a great anecdote," Paul chortled. "Alright, where were we? Oh, right. Let's do 'Baby Baby, Bye Bye', yeah?"

Happy to play something up-tempo after that Broadway tune, John hammed it up in a way that even Paul couldn't match whilst they gradually worked their way through the songs they knew best. Feeling slightly overconfident, they even tried two of their own songs on the audience though those mostly harvested blank stares.

They must have been playing for about an hour when John noticed Paul was starting to sag. Not that it was much of a surprise, seeing as how he was sitting with his back turned towards the sun. John wasn't an expert by any means, but he could easily guess the black fabric of the lad's T-shirt didn't help a lot where staying cool was concerned. He reckoned it'd be soaking wet, too, what with the way Paul had been sweating.

"Fancy a break, Macca? I could go for one of those lolly ice now," he said, wiping his forehead, which was every bit as damp as Paul's. He had long since pushed up his sleeves above his elbows, but he was still feeling very hot. It wasn't that the temperature was that high, the humidity just made it very sticky and uncomfortable. He wouldn't be surprised if they'd see a thunderstorm before the day was done. Either way, he was feeling every bit as spent as Paul looked.

"Sounds good," he nodded. Let's head over to the boating lake and cool down a bit."

John bent over and gathered their tips. "We've made one quid, ten - no, eleven bob, and sixpence," he declared after a quick count. "Not bad for an hour's work, right?"

"Told you we'd have enough for a snack," Paul grinned. "We'll be rich before you know it. Alright, let's pack it up, then. How about I find us a nice spot, whilst you go and get the ice?"

"Great. Hold my guitar, right?" Without waiting for a response, John thrust his six-string at Paul, who had no choice but to stop wiping the sweat of his brow in order to catch the guitar before it fell to the ground. "Which flavour do you want?"

"Any," Paul shrugged in reply, "as long as it isn't lemon."

John didn't particularly like that flavour either. It was too artificial to his taste. But he wasn't going to pass up on the opportunity to embarrass Paul, so he put on his best fake pout and whined, "why not? It sounds just like me. How can you not want me?"

"Well, you'll have to properly woo me first, John," Paul shot back without missing a beat. "How easy do you think I am? Wait, don't answer that. Just.... go on, you daft tit."

Laughing every bit as hard as Paul was, John rounded the lake, which was actually more of a big pond, and queued up at the ice cream parlour where he soon discovered he hadn't needed to remember a single thing. There was only one flavour of lolly ice left so before long, he found himself back in the spot where he'd left Paul, carrying two strawberry ice lollies, one of which was already half eaten whilst the other was starting to melt.

He glanced around, trying to find that one person in the large crowd occupying the pond and the area surrounding it. Eventually, he spotted him. In actuality, he noticed their guitars first, carefully propped up in the shadow of a tree, accompanied by a pair of blue trainers. The owner of the shoes was sat on a sort of jetty which extended quite far into the water and which kids used as a springboard.

Once upon a time, row boats were moored there but those had been gone for years now since most people preferred the much larger boating lake at Sefton Park, which wasn't very far away. With the boats gone, the wooden structure was popular amongst kids and, as it turned out, overheated teenagers, too. Paul had rolled up his trousers cuffs, which John found quite impressive since they were so tight, and he was paddling absentmindedly.

"Penny for yer thoughts," he joked, sitting down next to Paul and handing him the sticky treat.

He jumped a little. "What? Oh, cheers. Erm... I wasn't really thinking of much, really. Just random stuff, you know."

John wasn't that easily deterred. "What kind of random stuff would that be?"

"Oh, you know," Paul shrugged. "The kind of stuff people tend to think about when they're waiting for their best mate to bring them their ice cream. Which flavour will it be, will it still be frozen, won't he secretly lick it before he hands it over, that sort of stuff, you know."

"Who knew you'd be such a philosopher," John laughed.

"I am, you know. So, did you?"

"Did I what?"

"You know."

"Ooooh, that!" He cackled loudly. "That's for me to know and you to find out, son."

Paul smirked knowingly. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

The truth of the matter was, he hadn't started on Paul's lolly ice, but the thought had crossed John's mind, particularly when the red fruit juice had begun to trickle over his hand. He wouldn't tell him, of course. Leaving him to wonder was endlessly more fun.

"You can take it any way you like," he grinned. "You'll never get an answer from me. I'll take it to my grave, see."

"Well, it doesn't really matter," Paul said, struggling to finish the thing before it fell apart completely. It was a good thing he was wearing black because a big dollop had already ended up on his T-shirt. "it tastes fine just the same."

"I kind of wish I had licked it now," John confessed, momentarily forgetting he wasn't supposed to say that.

Paul was just turning to face him with a rather triumphant smirk on his face when John decided to compensate for his slip of the tongue. In one swift move, he extended his arm and pushed his friend hard in the back so that he went flying off the jetty and ended up cannonballing into the murky water. The splash had been so great, John ended up nearly just as soaked as the poor bugger he'd just shoved into the pond, and who was surfacing just now, huffing and coughing. The sight was incredibly amusing to John who nearly pissed himself laughing until suddenly, he found himself submerged in the rather chilly pond. Paul had grabbed his ankle and pulled him in so fast, John never even saw it coming.

"You'll pay for that, cagey bastard," John yelled, lunging forward to bowl Paul over.

"That's what I was going to say," he shouted back, before pulling John back under. He would've let his mate off easy if he'd admitted defeat but now that Paul was giving John a taste of his own medicine, it could only mean one thing: war!

No sooner had he sucked in a much-needed breath or John took his revenge, masterfully tackling Paul, who in turn seized John's arm as he went down so that they both ended up underwater. John had no idea how long the fight went on; it took all of his focus to at least keep up. Neither of them managed to really get the upper hand in their little wrestling match. Each time it seemed like John was winning, Paul retaliated, and vice versa.

John supposed the sight of two fully dressed barbarians staging a mock fight in the middle of the pond had to attract a lot of stares. If it did, he was having far too much fun to either notice or care. In fact, he never even caught on that people were starting to leave until he had to pause to catch his breath. That's when he noticed at least three-quarters of the crowd had left, and the rest wasn't far behind. Calming himself down, John remained where he was, chest-deep into the water, watching how Paul struggled to his feet after the latest tackle, his eyes alight with undiluted joy the likes of which John had witnessed only a few times before.

Suddenly, he found it impossible to look away. For a moment, he could only stand there, suddenly hypnotised by the way those black strands were plastered across Paul's forehead, water dripping steadily from them, past those wide eyes, which were fixed on him. He was close enough to see the pupils contract and dilate, changing the colour of the irises from a startling green to a warm brown. He could see it happening right there, in the span of maybe a second whilst the water just kept running down, past those little laugh lines underneath his eyes.

It always struck John as extraordinary, that someone that young would have those wrinkles, but he had long decided that Paul wouldn't be Paul without them. He followed the droplets down, across the cheeks that were now adorned with a scattering of freckles which were only visible from up close, down to his parted lips, which revealed those signature bunny teeth. The whole thing couldn't have lasted more than five seconds, but it might as well have been forever.

In a flash, as quickly as it grabbed him, the spell was broken when Paul laughed. His face broke into one of his smiles, the kind that made the sun pale in comparison, as he raised a hand to John's hairline. In a reflex, he pushed it away, but the younger lad wouldn't be deterred that easily. He simply slapped right back and brought his hand up once more. "Macca, what are you doing?"

Apparently unaware of the rather unnerving moment John had just experienced, Paul chuckled and plucked at his hair. "Tadpole."

"Oh, brilliant," John grumbled, shaking off the awkwardness. It probably meant nothing, anyway. "Mimi will kill me if I bring home any more wildlife."

"Well, you won't if you stand still for a second. There, all gone."

"Great. So are you," he cackled, pushing had against Paul's chest, so the lad lost his balance and disappeared under the water again. John quickly turned around and hurried out of the pond before he could be made to pay.

"Cagey fucker," Paul sputtered as he followed John's example and waded out of the water. "You'll pay for that, you know. When you least expect it, I'll have my revenge."

"Oh look, I'm trembling with fear," he cried gleefully.

"You should, you know." He shuddered violently and John could see goose pimples popping up all over his skin. "Bloody hell, that water is freezing!"

That must've been it, John mused. The water was cold. Very cold. Maybe his brain had just frozen or something. Either way, that weird feeling was gone now, so he tried his best to forget about it. "What did you expect? One early heat wave isn't enough to raise the temperature of the water. It isn't summer yet, Paul."

"I know that! Speaking of warm days," he added, pointing at the sky, "this one's about to end. Look at those clouds over there!"

John turned to look into the indicated direction where dark, nearly black clouds hung ominously low in the sky. There was a tell-tale yellowish hue about them. He knew exactly what that meant. "Looks like we're in for a bloody great electric storm."

"That's what I was thinking," Paul nodded. "What do you say we get back to your place before it breaks loose?"

"Why? I love thunderstorms. And it's not like we'll get any wetter than we are now."

"No, but our guitars will."

John had completely forgotten about that. He turned to look at the instruments, still leaning against the tree underneath which Paul parked them. Paul's was clearly the better one of the two and would probably survive a bit of rain, but his own would most likely be completely ruined by it. "Right. Hadn't thought of that. Alright, let's go then."

Paul put his shoes back on whilst John retrieved his from the pier and they walked as quickly as they could, realising they were headed in the direction of the downpour, and hoping they'd reach Mendips before the rain would. Alas, they were just turning onto Menlove Avenue when the first blinding flash of lightning, followed up immediately by a loud crack of thunder announced the arrival of the storm.

As one, John and Paul started to run, but by the time they reached number two hundred fifty-one, the rain was coming down in sheets of thick, icy drops that made it impossible to see more than twenty feet ahead. Shivering, John fumbled with his keys, dropping them twice before they finally stumbled through the back door and stood there panting, two rapidly growing puddles appearing around their feet.

"I stand corrected. I think I am even more soaked now.," John grinned. "Christ, talk about a cloudburst!"

"Really? I hadn't noticed, John," Paul quipped. Before he could say more, though, his face scrunched up and he sneezed violently. "Oh lovely, that."

John's mind briefly wandered to the handkerchief that was in his jeans pocket, still wrapped around what was left of the money they made. Giving it to Paul wouldn't much good since it would be soaked, so he thought of a better solution. "We better get out of these wet clothes and get warm before we both catch our deaths. Come'ead, you can shower first and then you can borrow some of my stuff to wear while your clothes are drying."

"Are you sure? I can just towel off and leave it at that, you know."

"Don't be daft," John scolded, briefly wondering which one of them was shivering the hardest at that point. "If I'm cold to the bone then I'm pretty sure you are, too. You'll take a hot shower, and that's that. I'll go first if it makes you feel better, but yer going. If only, to get rid of that dirty pond water."

Paul looked at the water pooling on the kitchen floor and pulled a face. "I think the rain already took care of that."

"Shut up or I'll draw you a bath and put you in it myself," John huffed in his best impression of Mimi. It was a good thing she wasn't home, he mused. She'd be fuming if she saw the mess they were making in her beloved kitchen.

"Yes, mum." Paul grinned broadly before sneezing again.

With that settled, John headed upstairs where he started gathering clothes, towels and whatever else he thought they might need before disappearing into the bathroom first, leaving Paul to entertain himself - and probably shiver and sneeze some more - for a little while. It was his own damn fault for being so bloody-minded about something so silly, anyway.

Thirty minutes later, the worst of the lightning storm had passed but John wasn't about to go out again. He'd had changed into his warmest pair of pyjamas, and he was just strumming idly on his guitar, which didn't appear to have suffered too badly from the rain when Paul came into the room, vigorously rubbing his hair with what looked like the same towel John had used to dry his own mop, which at that moment was little more than a heap of damp curls, sticking out at odd angles.

He looked a bit silly, John reckoned, wearing a nought but a pair of socks and a terrycloth bathrobe. John actually had fetched him a pair of pyjamas and clean pants, but the barmy git had forgotten to take those with him when he disappeared into the bathroom, and he had been singing so loudly in the shower, that he didn't hear John when he tried to remind him.

"Oh, there they are," Paul muttered, locating the missing garments. "I knew I forgot something." He smiled sheepishly as he shimmied into the underpants with the dressing gown still on - which John thought a bit silly since they saw each other starkers in the showers every day anyway - after which he took the bathrobe off with a flourish so he could step into the pyjama bottoms.

John caught himself looking at Paul's chest just a second too long as he was reaching for the pyjama top and felt his heart skipping a beat. He quickly averted his eyes and tried to rid himself of the unwelcome sensation by focusing on something else, whilst painfully aware of the blush that was creeping up the back of his neck. Hoping it'd go unnoticed, John cleared his throat and murmured, "I see yer not wearing yer tags, Paul."

"Yeah, I reckoned it's my free time, so I took them off the moment I got home." Now properly covered up, Paul picked up his guitar and sat down on the foot of John's bed. "Keeping them on felt a bit like I'm still there even though it's the holiday. I didn't like the thought of that, you know. I want to just be myself for a few weeks."

John shrugged, his gaze fixed a loose thread hanging from his bed spread. "You can be yourself and still wear them."

"Maybe you can, but that's not how I see it."

John faltered, wondering if Paul would understand his point of view. It was bound to come up sometime, and he was afraid Paul might not be able to respect his opinion. He realised that was an unfair assumption, yet he couldn't quite shake the thought. "I know, you told me." he reminded Paul. "I guess we just don't see eye to eye on that."

"I guess not. D'you want to talk about it, John? I mean, you listened to me, the least I can do it hear you out, you know. Believe it or not, I'm actually interested in hearing your point of view."

John nodded and returned to his strumming. He wanted them to talk about it, or he thought so, anyway. But not yet. Not when he had so much else on his mind. "I know, Macca. And you'll regret saying that soon enough."

"Oh, will I now," Paul chuckled.

"Count on it."

He threw the towel at John's head and started playing their latest attempt at a song, "I can hardly wait."


	17. Birthday

**18 June 1961**

 

**John**

 

It was raining. Again. Big drops chased each other down the windows, past the stained glass flowers, creating intricate paths as they trailed towards the already overflowing tiles below the window sill.

For the past thirty minutes or so, John had been staring at it with the intensity of a cat spying on a sparrow, focusing on one drop and trying to follow it all the way down, which proved quite a difficult endeavour. Not only did the little trails split up to form a myriad of new ones, tracks of different origins would merge as well, making it impossible to determine what came from where. Every now and again, a sudden gust of wind would cause a spray of rain to pummel the glass and wipe out all the previous pathways, so the whole exercise started anew.

It had been like that for days or possibly even weeks. Ever since that cloudburst, a week into the summer holiday, the weather had been typically English: cold, wet, grey, and depressing. Even when the sun did come out, it lacked the warmth it had on that day in the park. So far, it was proving a rather glum summer.

Technically, it was still spring, of course. The early heat wave had been a welcome surprise from the weather gods, but that still didn't negate the fact that it had been very unusual and that this piss weather was actually the norm. For John, though, the incessant rain was enough to bring his chagrin to a staggering level. Mimi, in turn, had her fill with it.

"You ought to be on your way by now, John," she stated from behind the book she was reading.

"It's raining."

His aunt shook her head in disbelief and reached for her cigarettes. "You won't melt, lad. When did Paul say he expected you?"

"We didn't agree upon a time, Mimi." He knew that wasn't quite true, but she didn't need to know that. "What's it to you, anyway? You don't even like my mates."

"I believe you have entirely the wrong idea of me, my dear boy. I happen to find your little friend quite charming for a proletarian. He could teach you a thing or two about manners, I dare say."

"First time I ever heard you say anything positive about any of my friends," he muttered, feeling slightly miffed by the thinly veiled reprimand. The underhandedness of the compliment hadn't escaped John's attention either, but he decided to ignore that for once. After all, she'd said far worse things about Paul so for her, this was exceptionally high praise. John just wished she could've formulated it in a way that didn't make her sound like an insufferable snob.

"Perhaps if you chose your company more wisely, I would have good things to say about them." A raspy cough interrupted her reply. When she spoke again, her voice sounded even more smoked than before. "It's poor form to make people wait for you, John. What's more, you are getting on my last nerve, sitting there being idle, sighing like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Either you go to your friend, or I shall find something useful for you to do."

"Alright, I'll go."

Mimi wasn't entirely wrong, even if she was blunt. John had been moping. The thought of the party somehow filled him with dread. By now, he was thoroughly aware of the strange fascination he had for Paul, and he knew he'd been exposed. During one of their guitar lessons, which they scheduled twice a week, he'd been completely distracted. It wasn't until Paul cleared his throat that John realised he'd been caught staring at his best mate's lips and even though he claimed he was just lost in thought, he knew it was a lie. John suspected Paul knew, too, even if he hadn't pressed the matter.

John wondered what he would say if Paul ever would confront him about his erratic behaviour. He didn't even know what it was about, so how could he explain it so someone else? Part of him knew damn well what was going on, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. Another part of him had this morbid curiosity about it, and he supposed that was what made him cast all those intense glances. The two utterly conflicting emotions had him reeling for weeks. Unable to come to terms with his feelings, John had been lashing out at anyone and everyone, acting like a complete arse, and he knew it. Everyone bore the brunt of it: Mimi, Cyn, and especially Paul.

Perhaps it wasn't even the fear of being caught by someone else that made him drag his feet about going to the party. He knew his acerbic wit could shut anyone up, so that wasn't the biggest issue. Acting like a complete rotter to keep people at bay, that he could do. It worked a treat with Paul, didn't it? He hadn't missed a lesson but after the fourth time John blew up at him for no apparent reason, Paul stopped sticking around after the lessons were over. The random calls to ask John if he felt like hanging out somewhere had stopped now as well.

John wondered how long it'd take for Paul to cancel the lessons too. Those were still fun, and they were the highlight of John's days, but he couldn't deny the fact that Paul was behaving more cautiously now. And it was all because he was being such a complete and utter arse. John felt guilty about it, which in turn made him act up even more. He'd been trying to justify it by thinking Paul should just grow some bollocks and defend himself. If he, or anyone for that matter, had a problem with the things John said or did, they could handle it like proper Scousers: pay him back with equal currency, give him a good beating, or shut the fuck up. Right? Right. So, then why did he still feel bad?

"John? You're still here. The bathroom needs cleaning if you find yourself unable to face the rain."

"Shut up, Mimi. I'm going now, okay?" He grabbed the neatly wrapped birthday gift, which had cost quite a bit more than he would normally spend on a friend's birthday and which probably testified of his heavy conscience, and kissed his aunt on the cheek before heading out. "See you in a bit."

Stepping out into the rain very nearly robbed John of whatever enthusiasm he had left. For a few moments, he just stood there, contemplating the idea of calling the whole thing off. Maybe if he called to say he'd caught a cold, he'd be told to stay at home? Then again, Mimi wouldn't buy it, and he had no interest whatsoever in doing household chores. Compared to that, the party had to be the better option so, heaving a heavy sigh, John pulled the kitchen door shut, fetched his bicycle, and set a course for Forthlin Road.

When he got there John hesitated again, his hand hovering over the doorbell as he tried to compose himself. It wouldn't be so bad, he just had to focus on something that wouldn't make him feel all funny inside and bite his tongue whenever he was on the verge of saying something stupid. That was all. It shouldn't be that difficult, right? It might even be fun. From where he stood, John could hear voices, but they were too vague to make out whose, or what they were saying. Sometimes, one would rise above the others, usually followed by raucous laughter. It sounded like whoever was inside, they were having a great time. Deciding he might as well join them rather than stand in the rain like a drowned cat, he finally pressed the button that set off a loud ringing noise inside the house.

"George, can you get that? I've got my hands full!"

John couldn't help but smile like a lunatic at the sound of Paul's voice. He sounded so much more relaxed than John had ever heard him at the barracks. A lot more cheerful than he'd sounded during their most recent guitar lessons too, as difficult as that was to admit. Deep down, John realised it was silly to be so happy about hearing the voice of his best mate, especially after having seen him very recently. And yet, he couldn't stop that warm, happy feeling from spreading through his chest at the mere sound of the voice he knew so well.

He was still grinning when he saw someone approach the front door. As it swung open, a lanky bloke with dark brown hair and equally dark brown eyes became visible. Something told John he'd seen him before. He didn't quite get the chance to suss it out, though, since the other apparently instantly recognised him.

"You...!"

The next moment, John was seeing stars.

-*-  
  
Eighteen minutes. That's how much time had passed since Paul stomped out of the kitchen, leaving John and George with unambiguous instructions to 'work it out, or bugger off'. Oh, and they were supposed to do it in a civilised manner, too. Well, John reckoned, neither he nor George was yelling anymore, and they weren't trying to bash each other's heads in, either. That was good, right? Only trouble was, they weren't in any way trying to settle the dispute, either. John glanced at his watch again. Nineteen minutes. This could take awhile.

Paul wouldn't actually kick him out, though, would he? Now that he was there, John didn't really want to leave. If only because that meant facing Mimi and even though he wasn't bleeding anymore, he knew the signs of a fist fight were very much present on his face. She'd never let him hear the end of it if he came home now, looking the way he did. So, that meant he'd have to stay, because going somewhere else wasn't much of an option either, what with most of his mates away on holiday and him being temporarily banned from his favourite pub.

George clearly had no intention of pissing off, either. If they were both to stay, John supposed someone would have to wave a white flag and he was of the opinion that it was up to the younger lad to do that. After all, he'd thrown the first punch. Well, head butt, technically. John could still feel it, too. He didn't think he'd broken his jaw but is sure as fuck had to be bruised. A quick sideways glance taught John not to hold his breath waiting for an apology. The way George stood there, staring daggers at him with those dark, nearly black eyes, robbed him of any illusions he had in that regard. Perhaps, his nagging conscience whispered, the kid was right to be upset. In hindsight, Paul had forgiven him remarkably easily for what he'd done at New Year's. It would have been foolish to think the bloke who had been there to witness it all would be equally kind. But still, if...

John's thoughts got abruptly cut off by the arrival of two men, one younger and one older, who were deeply engrossed in conversation. Clearly, they'd been to the shops, because they were both carrying bulging bags of groceries. He'd never seen either of them before, but John instantly knew the older man had to be Jim McCartney. An idiot could suss that out, he reckoned, since the man was basically an older version of Paul. There were differences too: Jim's eyes were blue and the little bit of hair he had left looked like it had been dark blond once upon a long ago. Still, the resemblance was undeniable and went into the tiniest details, down to those thin, arched eyebrows. The lad that had trailed in behind Jim had to be Mike, then. Paul hadn't lied when he said they didn't look alike at all. There was a certain sameness in their energy and John could see some minor similarities, but the casual observer would never peg the blue-eyed kid with reddish blond hair as Paul's kid brother.

"Hi, Uncle Jim," George suddenly piped up, tearing John from his thoughts. "Alright, Mikey?"

As one, the McCartney men turned to face the two lads. Apparently, they hadn't even noticed either of them thus far. The pleasant expression disappeared from Jim McCartney's face as he noticed the state George and John were in, and his right eyebrow shot up in the exact same way Paul's would. In fact, Mike's did, too, though it didn't arch quite as much. Enough to make him look a lot more like his brother and father, though.

Remembering his aunt had desperately tried to instil John with some basic social skills, he quickly adjusted his attitude and addressed the older man with his most charming smile. "How do you do? I'm John, John Lennon. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir, Paul has told me a lot about you." After shaking the man's hand, he turned to the young lad. "You must be Mike. Nice to finally put a face to the name."

Mike seemed charmed enough, but he could feel the icy gaze of James senior on him even before he made proper eye contact with the man. Just as John feared, the split eyebrow did not go over well, nor did the big, purple bruise on his jaw. Clearly, the codger was equally unimpressed by the black eye and the fat lip he had decorated George's face with.

"Michael, would you ask your brother to come here, please?" Jim's eyes followed his youngest progeny as he exited the room and then proceeded to put a cake in the refrigerator whilst they waited for the birthday boy to join them, which he promptly did.

"Hey dad," Paul said cheerfully, the moment he breezed into the tiny kitchen as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in there at all. "Mike said you needed me in here?"

"Paul, would you mind explaining..." John saw the man's eyes widen. Rather than finish his question, he pointed at a spot on Paul's jumper. "What's that; have you been bleeding?"

"Oh, that must be mine," John blurted out, instantly wishing he'd kept his mouth shut when he saw the way the older man stared daggers at him. In the meantime, Paul swore under his breath and quickly pulled the garment over his head, muttering some more expletives as he tried to rinse the small stain out of the light blue fabric.

The situation was becoming more like a theatrical drama by the second, John soon realised as he caught himself staring at Paul's sinewy back, and the perfect way his jeans hugged his thighs and arse. He was just thinking how much healthier he looked now that he'd put on some weight when he became aware of two things: George had noticed his lingering stare, and Jim was forcing Paul around so that everyone could see what he spotted: a fist-shaped bruise that was blooming on his son's abdomen.

"When I left to run some errands," he grumbled, "I did not expect to return to find the obvious remains of a fight. Would anyone care to explain what this is all about?"

"It's not as bad as it looks, dad," Paul shrugged. "Just a bit of a mix-up, right, lads?"

John nodded, feeling a bit confused himself. He never noticed anyone other than him and George got roughed up during that row. Apparently, neither had George, though he seemed to at least understand what happened.

"Did I do that, Paul?"

"Yeah, you did," he grinned, readjusting his arms to hide as much of himself as he could. "I guess I shouldn't have got in the way."

"Out of the way of what?" The old man inquired angrily, looking as if he was this close to physically throwing some people out of his house.

John noticed Paul ever so briefly shutting his eyes before schooling his expression to look perfectly unperturbed. "Nothing, dad, just forget about it."

"If it was nothing, I wouldn't be looking at three battered and bruised young men," the oldest McCartney insisted. "Are you going to explain what happened under my roof while I was away, or aren't you?"

"It was just a misunderstanding, sir," John tried, rapidly growing weary of the old man's interrogation. As far as he was concerned, what happened was between him and George, and everyone else, except Paul, should stay out of it.

"It's my fault, Uncle Jim," George suddenly admitted. "I didn't mean to hit Paul, it happened by accident. I thought I was punching Jo-..." Turning pink, George quickly cut himself off, but the damage had already been done.

"You what? I wouldn't expect something like that from you, George. Why would you do such a thing?"

George scowled at the reprimand. "How was I to know he was Paul's new best mate? Nobody told me. I only know him as the guy who beat Paul up last winter!" He hesitated a moment, and added, "I'm sorry, alright?"

"Me too," John nodded. "For everything. I was wrong to attack Paul back then, and I shouldn't have hit back when George came at me," he admitted, parroting the lecture Paul had given him earlier about not being allowed to use hand to hand combat techniques on people who didn't possess those skills.

To his relief, Paul's father seemed to be somewhat mollified by the apologies, though he still came across as being rather stern. John wasn't altogether sure he liked the man, though he suspected his candid conversation with Paul, not too long ago, played a big role in that too. Still, he wasn't about to stir up any more trouble, so he smiled politely to show his best intentions.

"Go on, dad," Paul pressed, "just forget about it. Nobody got seriously hurt. It's actually quite funny if you think about it." He nudged his father, apparently trying to get him to smile. "Like one of those old slapstick pictures where everything goes wrong, you know? It'll make a great story to tell the rellies. You should tell 'em tonight, they'll be in stitches."

For a few tense moments, everyone was scrutinising everyone else. Then, to John's massive relief, the old man slowly shook his head and went about unpacking the bags with a hint of a smile on his face. When he looked sideways, he noticed even George was grinning. Apparently, wonders never ceased.

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

  
  
The party was long since over when Paul jerked awake. He thought it was, anyway. It was dark out, though that wasn't much of an indication since there were always some stragglers who didn't go home until well after midnight. But, the house was quiet, and that could only mean one thing. For a little while, Paul lay there, listening to the silence. Everyone had to be asleep by then, he reckoned. If he strained his ears, it was almost as if he could hear the house itself breathing quietly too, and it reminded him of some silly story Mike wrote. What was it? Right. Edward Tickle. About a man who fed his house bricks through the windows to keep it happy. Paul always liked Mike's stories and poems and wondered if someone would publish them someday. People were bound to buy that since they were hanging from the kid's lips when he did a little performance at the party.

The party... As birthday bashes went, Paul reckoned this was one of his better ones. The presents were great, this year. Some stuff he desperately needed, such as some new clothes from his rellies. Aunt Millie hit the jackpot in that area: the T-shirt Paul was gifted by her was the perfect size, meaning he could actually breathe and move in it, and its colour was very unusual: turquoise or something like that. To him, it was just blue but the ladies all insisted it was that other word. Paul didn't care. He'd put it on immediately, and hadn't taken it off until he excused himself from the party, knackered and a little drunk. Mike had already gone to bed by then, he had to get up early for work.

Yawning, Paul reached up to switch on the small reading lamp over his bed, squinting hard when the light assaulted his tired eyes, instantly changing his expression into a frown when he noticed the state he and his room were in. For some reason, he was still wearing his jeans. Why would he wear those to bed? Unless... It wasn't entirely unheard of for Paul to fall asleep with his clothes still on. After his mum died, he'd sometimes wake up with his guitar still in his lap and a crick in his neck from sagging to the side and lying like that for hours. A vague memory began to dawn: waking up to Auntie Edie - the scent of rosewater always gave her away - tucking him in.

Paul had been three-quarters of the way to sleeping, if not more, so he'd been unable to do more than utter a sleepy hum in reply to her gentle admonition. It was difficult to remember much of what she'd said or done, and the last somewhat coherent recollection was that of a soft hand lovingly stroking his hair and someone kissing his temple before tightly tucking a duvet around Paul's shoulders. The same duvet that slid to the floor just now, and he recognised as the one he slept underneath in winter. Willing his limbs to cooperate, Paul got up to put the warm, heavy cover back where it belonged, and lazily changed into some more appropriate sleeping attire.

A quick glance around the room told him all of his presents were neatly stacked up on the chair in the corner, save for some bits and bobs that had been put into an organised pile on the bedside cabinet. A smile crept onto his face as he gathered the new clothes to put them away and noticed the labels had all been removed from the T-shirts. Auntie Jin's handiwork, no doubt, who'd caught him vigorously scratching the rash on his neck, caused by the itchy label of his new T-shirt. Paul hadn't even needed to take the thing off; one snip with a pair of scissors and a swift flick of the wrist had been enough to remove the nuisance. Clearly, she'd had taken it upon herself to give the remaining ones the same treatment.

It was just one more thing to improve a day that was already as good as he possibly could've wished for. Paul supposed it would've been even more perfect if his favourite cousin, Beth, would've been able to make it but he'd known she wouldn't have been able to leave the pub with the new baby and all. She'd sent a little parcel with some rock and roll singles earlier in the week and her oldest two, Ted and Katie, had made him a drawing, which was now pinned to the wall over Paul's bed. Apparently, one of the figures in it was supposed to be him. He supposed it was sentimental to stick the drawing on his wall but Paul didn't really care. Looking at it was almost as if Bett, Mike, and the kids had made it to the party after all.

As far as Paul could tell, everyone else had shown up, and everyone got along. Well. Eventually. George wouldn't have been George if he hadn't held a grudge for a bit, and John wouldn't have been John if he hadn't behaved like a complete clown. He really could be very funny and charming when he chose to be, and he obviously did because, before long, he'd wound everyone around his little finger. Even George and, if he wasn't completely mistaken, even his dad seemed to have defrosted a bit by the time John had gone home.

John... Paul didn't know what to think, really. Over the course of a few weeks, starting with that day in the park, he'd started to have his doubts about their friendship. The way John would stare at him sometimes with that strange expression in his eyes... And nearly always, he'd end up lashing out at Paul right after. It'd got so bad, that Paul had started to withdraw, sensing he must've done something to upset John somehow. He hadn't a clue what it was, though. He knew he could be overbearing and at times even condescending. Mike and George were never shy to remind him of it, so he guessed it must be true even if he didn't always see it like that. Didn't mean to be, anyway. Maybe he was doing that again during the guitar lessons; perhaps that's what brought on those nasty outbursts.

But today, John had been completely different. He'd been the light of the party, and the present he'd brought was unlike anything Paul had expected. Paul extended his arm and picked up the journal from the pile on his nightstand. By the dim light of his reading lamp, he admired the little book for what seemed like the millionth time.

Paul had got journals or notebooks before. Most people who knew him knew he was always doodling, writing down his thoughts, or coming up with poems or songs. Most of the time, it'd be the same kind he'd buy for himself: the cheap ones that came in either red or black, with pages that were simply glued to the spine. Nothing fancy, but they worked just fine. Paul was always happy to get one of those. Once, Mike had given his leftover exercise books from school, which hadn't cost him a penny but Paul had put them to good use just the same.

John had gone for something entirely different, though. Not only was it blue, his favourite colour, the whole thing just looked... posh. It had far more pages, and they were bound, not glued, into the hardcover. Paul reckoned he'd have far fewer pages falling out of this one. And then there was the binding itself: linen, the rough kind that sort of squeaked when you ran your fingers over it. Paul traced the letters on the front: JPM. He knew there was a shop where they had some machine that could emboss stuff. You could even get things decorated with gold-leaf letters n'dat if you wanted, but he'd never considered having that done, not for a friend anyway. Maybe for his dad or an aunt or uncle, if there was an occasion for it. He probably wouldn't go to such lengths for a mate's birthday. John had, though. He hadn't had any of the really fancy stuff done, which was just as well because it was just perfect the way it was with just his initials in plain block letters indented into the cover.

Somehow, the gift had confused him. On one hand, it showed how well John knew him and how much trouble he was willing to go to to make him happy. On the other hand, there was that feeling which had only got stronger, which made Paul wonder if he was losing John as a friend. Was that why he'd got him such an expensive present? And if it was, why did the idea of losing this particular friendship upset him so much? Paul didn't understand. Mates came and went; there were loads of people hew as once close with, who weren't a part of his life anymore. So, why was this one different? Why did he care so much and why had he chosen to pull back rather than to confront John about his behaviour?

Not knowing which John he'd get and where those moods came from was exhausting, and Paul didn't know how much longer he'd be able to put up with it. Frustrated, Paul sighed and turned on his stomach, groping for one of the pens from the set he'd got from Uncle Jack. There were too many thoughts swirling ‘round in his head to fall asleep, so he began unloading his troubles onto the pristine paper of the brand new journal, letting them flow uncensored, straight from his mind into the written word until eventually, the line between thoughts and dreams started to blur.

Next thing he knew, the room was bathing in daylight. Going by the shadows on the wall, Paul reckoned it had to be close to midday. The house sounded and felt empty, which made sense, what with it being Monday. That was also the day an aunt came over to clean, assuming anyone would come at all. Considering the party, and the fact that the last guests probably hadn't left until well after midnight, it wouldn't have surprised him if nobody would come 'round.

Then again, Paul mused as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and scrutinised his surroundings, someone clearly had been in his room recently. Catching his reflection in the tiny shaving mirror over his bed, he realised it could only have been Auntie Millie; she'd neglected to wipe off the lipstick after kissing him on the cheek. Too busy tidying up, Paul supposed, noticing the subtle changes. The window was at a crack, the light was off, and the jeans he'd left on the chair after he cleared away his new clothes were gone. His new diary was back in its place on top of the bedside table, which he knew he definitely didn't do. He picked it up, curious to read back what he'd written down. The first thing that occurred to him was that he wasn't going to win any prizes for excellent penmanship with it, something he had in the past, as a matter of fact.

The next question on his mind was why he used a fountain pen. If anything, his dad was going to kill him over the hideous ink stain in the pillow case. it wasn't a big mystery how that got there, though. The paper was looking rather smeared, and he'd already noticed the lipstick-less half of his face had blue smudges all over it, so it didn't take a genius to figure out what happened. But what really made his heart race, was not how it all looked, but what he wrote.

He'd been semi-consciously aware - albeit in denial - of some of it, but not all, and the further he got, the wider his eyes grew. It was his handwriting, but where did those thoughts originate from? As Paul deciphered the last of it, a realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks. He hadn't put the journal away. Hadn't even closed it. He couldn't have because he obviously fell asleep on top of it. So, his aunt must have rescued it from being drooled on too badly. What if she read it? What if she read it... and told his dad?

-*-

7 July 1961

Paul

"You can't be serious!" Barely contained anger curled around the edges of Paul's voice as he addressed his father. He couldn't believe what he just heard. What was he, five?

"Mind your manners, son," the older man warned. "I have given you my answer, and you will abide by it or face the consequences."

When Paul didn't respond, he continued to say, "since your brother and I will be at work all day, I expect you to go to the shops and get the things we need for tonight. You will find the shopping list and some money on the mantel shelf. When you get back, you can leave the receipts and the change there, as well." He didn't add 'I'll be counting it', but Paul knew he would. He always did.

"Fine."

"You had better be here when I get home, lad," Jim added. "And I don't want you wearing those tight trousers, either. I can't believe you went behind my back and ruined a perfectly good, new pair of jeans again. How many times have I warned you? It's indecent, son."

"Arl' arse," Paul muttered under his breath. He instantly regretted it when his father's hand painfully struck the side of his face.

From the moment he'd carefully brought up Richie's party, Paul had been wanting to get away. It was one thing for his dad to say that he wasn't allowed to go, it was another thing entirely to give him a lecture about putting family first, and taking responsibility. This slap was enough to rid him of whatever charitable feelings he had left. Sure, it was the old man's birthday, but that didn't mean he had to be such a prick about it, did it? Casting the older man a disdainful look, Paul roughly pushed back his chair and stomped straight up the stairs to his room, where he slammed the door with all the strength he could muster. Only then did he bring a hand to his face, hissing slightly when his fingertips touched the tender, burning skin covering his cheekbone. Was this kind of punishment ever going to end?

"If that's you, dad, I don't want to talk about it," he grumbled when there came a knock on the door, some fifteen minutes later.

"It's me," Mike muttered, opening the door just enough so he could poke his head around it. "He already left for work. Can I come in?"

"Sure. I don't have a barney with you, do I?"

Mike approached Paul tentatively, holding what looked like a dripping wet facecloth. "Here," he said, carefully pressing the flannel to his older brother's cheek, "to stop it from bruising too much."

The cold water felt good against the sore spot. Paul smiled gratefully. "Cheers, Mikey."  
  
"Don't mention it. How badly does it hurt?"

"Not as much as the humiliation does," Paul grumbled as he took the facecloth from Mike and ever so slightly repositioned it to cover the most painful spot. "You'd think he would've got less strict by now, you know? I don't get why he's still doing this. I mean, I shouldn't have said that, but."

"I don't know either, Paul, but I bet it has less to do with what you said than with his own struggles." Mike moved back a bit so that he ended up shoulder to shoulder with Paul, both of them leaning against the wall. "I don't reckon he ever got over mum. Maybe he thinks he owes it to her to keep us on a short leash. You know, so we live up to the expectations she had, or something."

"Maybe you're right." He pondered it for a moment. "Mike, he hasn't hit you while I was away, has he?"

"No, he hasn't," Mike replied a bit too quickly for Paul's taste. "It's true," he emphasised, seeing the sceptical look aimed at him, "I'd tell you if he had, I promise."

"Alright, I believe you." Paul wasn't sure he did, but the last thing he wanted was to lose Mike as an ally, so he left it alone.

"As you should. So, what will you do? Jump ship, or what?"

"Haven't decided yet. I might pop out for a bit, you know," Paul added with a wink. "But only if it's not black and blue. One of the lads might kill the old man if they find out what he did."

"Yeah, can't have that. People might frown upon him turning up dead," Mike chortled, motioning for Paul to let him take another look at the damage. "I think you can go, though. It's bruised a bit, but it's not too bad. It should fade away in a few days."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm always right," he jested, pushing himself to his feet and stretching his arms over his head. "Anyway, I need to get to work."

Paul got up and hugged his brother. They hadn't talked long, but it'd been enough to considerably brighten up his mood. "Thanks, Mikey. You know I love you, right?"

"Love you too, Paul, and so does dad, even if he has a strange way of showing it."

"I know. I just like you a lot better than I like him, right now, you know?" Paul turned to grab the last of the chocolate that remained of the sizeable amount of sweet he'd got for his birthday. He'd already started on the bar, but he knew it was Mike's favourite so he was happy to surrender the remaining three-quarters of it to illustrate his gratitude. He caught their reflections in the window and froze. Paul looked back at Mike, who was right at his side, then at the window again. There was no denying that what he saw was real. "Mike? When did you get taller than me?"

Mike laughed out loud." Christ, Paul, you only noticed now? You've been back for six weeks!"

He grinned sheepishly, somewhat embarrassed he hadn't noticed before. "Yeah, well... It doesn't seem right. I'm older, I should be the tallest."

"Oh, come on. You already got the looks, let me have something over you for a change."

If there was one thing Paul disliked, it was anyone suggesting he was better-looking. He supposed that objectively speaking it was true but to him, Mike was as attractive as anyone and Paul didn't like it when people insulted his baby brother. He certainly wouldn't have any of that self-deprecating shite the kid just uttered. "You shouldn't talk like that, Mike."

"Leave off, Paul," Mike said, playfully shoving Paul in the arm, causing him to topple onto the bed. "It's alright, you know. I don't care. I like to think I'm smarter than you anyway."

"As if!"

"Oh yes," Mike laughed, "that was a very succinct reply, that was. Anyway, just so you know, I have every intention of growing a bit more, so I'll be the tall one and you can be the pretty one. How else are people going to tell us apart?"

Paul snorted, vividly remembering the times people wouldn't believe they were brothers. "Yeah, we do so look alike."

"Exactly. Now, keep something cold on that cheek or you won't even be pretty anymore; you'll just be the stupid, short one."

"Get to work, you git."

"What's the matter, Paulie, did your baby brother hit a nerve?" Mike laughed loudly when a tepid, soggy flannel collided with his face. "Short, stupid, and throws like a bird. No wonder it bothers you that I'm taller. Poor sod..."

Before something harder could be thrown at him, he quickly ducked out of the room, bounded down the stairs and headed out the door, leaving Paul alone up in his room. He half suspected Mike would be late for work, but at least he'd succeeded in what he'd clearly set out to do: he'd completely vanquished Paul's foul mood and left him smiling from ear to ear.

 

**-*-**

 

**Mike**

 

The moment he saw his aunt walk down the stairs with a look of angry determination on her face, Mike knew one of two scenarios was playing out. Either she was going to rat on Paul, who'd gone upstairs complaining of a stomach ache, or she was going to read her brother the riot act. Knowing aunt Mildred, it could go either way and he really, really wanted to know which it was. As his father and aunt disappeared into the kitchen and the door closed behind them, Mike quietly moved in closer, hoping to hear what they were saying.

The problem was, pressing his ear to the kitchen door would look suspicious, whilst simply loitering about the corridor meant missing parts of the conversation. With all the aunts and uncles talking over each other, the house was filled with enough noise to easily drown out a back and forth between two people. So, he strained his ears and tried to hide his eavesdropping as best he could.

By the time he managed to home in on the voices he wanted to hear, the conversation was well underway and it was clear to him whose side his aunt was on. She didn't get upset often, but the way her voice rose over the noise, making it easier for Mike to get the gist of what was happening, she definitely had a bee in her bonnet about something.

"....don't insult my intelligence, Jim. I know perfectly well when our kid is putting on a show and when he is not, and I'm telling you he's not well at all." Her agitated voice died away, and he heard the rumble of his dad's voice, but it was too low to make out any words.

"Oh really? People can feign pale skin now, can they? And I suppose those bruises on his face are fake as well, then?" Mike shifted his weight to his other leg, to keep himself from losing his balance. He tried to get closer, wanting to hear both sides of the conversation, but so far, Auntie Millie was the only person he could hear. "What kind of an excuse is that, Jim?"

Mike could hear his dad's voice better now, but what he said was impossible to make out. The reply, however, made it clear what his father had said.

"No, a firm smack on the bottom is discipline, and even that usually ends when a child is twelve or so. Striking your adult son about the face is not discipline, James McCartney. That's just wrong."

"....don't tell.....children....behaviour......"

Finally, Mike was able to make out some of what his father was saying, even if it didn't really make much sense yet. Was he telling his sister to mind her own business? That wouldn't go over well. Aunt Millie had been the closest thing to a mum he and Paul'd had these past years.

"From what I hear, he had every right to be rude. Honestly, Jim, forcing him to stay here with a bunch of old people instead of allowing him to have fun with his friends? What were you thinking?"

Mike quietly cheered his aunt on, happy that someone was trying to talk some sense into the old man. He was so engrossed in his eavesdropping, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard someone walking into the corridor. He quickly straightened himself up and tried to look casual. He smiled politely at his aunt Edith, answering her questions about his job at the ladies' hair salon and Paul's whereabouts with very little zeal, silently willing her to go away so he could once again listen in on the argument on the other side of that door. No sooner had she left, or Mike was back in his spot.

"......showing....Jim." He'd been unable to pick out more than a handful of words for a minute or two and what he'd heard made no sense whatsoever but now his aunt's voice was rising again. "Are you not aware this program isn't an innocent pastime? Some of the things that have to do are dangerous, you know. Boys have got hurt during those extended programs."

That certainly sped up Mike's heart rate. What was his aunt on about? It wasn't dangerous or anything, was it? Apparently, his father thought the same.

"Now you're just being dramatic, Mildred," he could hear the old man shout. "Paul will be fine. They wouldn't let him do those things if it was too perilous."

"Haven't you heard about what happened to that unfortunate lad, some time ago, Jim? It made the papers, remember?" She was shrieking now, and Mike found himself involuntarily recoiling at the sound. What could possibly have happened that upset his aunt so?

"...not at Aldershot...."

"No, but it was one of those programs. Can you live with yourself if anything like that happened to your son? Mary's son? How would....."

To his utter frustration, Mike got interrupted again. This time, uncle Ernie came out into the corridor to get something out of his jacket pocket. He interrupted his search, casting a curious glance at Mike. He thought it wise to pretend to have a purpose, so he crouched down at the storage area underneath the stairs and moved some things about, hoping to convince his uncle that he knew what he was trying to unearth. Feeling he was still being stared at, he pulled Paul's nearly empty duffle bag out from the pile and gestured at it, as if to say he found what he was looking for. This seemed to appease his uncle, at last. To his disappointment, the conversation had more or less petered out when he managed to resume his spot at the kitchen door.

"....leave him alone, Jim. He's feeling ill, and bothering him now will only make it worse...."

Mike dashed out of the way, sensing the quarrellers were about to join the party again. He needn't have bothered; it would seem they had gone into the back room. Dragging the enormous bag behind him - his brother would be needing to start packing anyway so he might as well bring it along - he hurried up the stairs to let Paul know what he heard, only to discover he'd already left via the bedroom window. He'd clearly got creative with it, too, using the designated sick bucket as a step to reach the windowsill. Well, with trousers that tight, Mike mused, it was no wonder Paul needed some help getting up there. How he could even move in those was anyone's guess.

Hoping against his better judgement Paul wouldn't drink so much he'd end up using the thing for its intended purpose, Mike turned it right side up and shoved it half underneath the bed so the fugitive wouldn't break his neck on it later. He straightened some bits and bobs Paul knocked out of place during his escape and was just about to head back to the party when the familiar step of his father approached. Apparently, he wasn't going to let his sister dictate his actions after all. Mike panicked for a moment. Not only was Jim going to find out Paul had left, it was also too late for him to get out of the room without being seen, meaning he'd be in just as much trouble.

Just as he saw the shape of his dad emerge on the landing, Mike threw caution to the wind and dove into Paul's bed, pulling the covers all the way up over his head, and not a second too soon. "You ought to stop sulking and come downstairs, son."

Mike's heart was racing. Any moment now, he could be discovered. There'd be hell to pay once that happened. Unless... He knew he and Paul didn't sound alike at all. It was the oddest thing: his speaking voice was higher than Paul's, but his singing voice was noticeably lower so that whenever they sang together, Paul would always end up with the high harmony whilst Mike would cover the lower one. It was as if everything was mirrored in them. Well, nearly everything. They shared some tell-tale characteristics: they had the same body type, the same hands, many of the same mannerisms, and the same uncanny ability to do impressions of just about anyone.

Mimicking Paul's voice as best as he could, Mike grumbled, "no, leave me alone."

"Please don't behave like a spoilt child, Paul. It's gone on long enough." From his hiding place, Mike could hear his father sliding the old zinc bucket out from under the bed. "Seems to me you aren't half as ill as you would have people believe, lad, or this wouldn't be empty."

"It won't be much longer," Mike groaned, trying to sound as sickly as possible, wondering if it was too dramatic. In his mind, he kept repeating, 'please just buy it, please just buy it'. The worst thing that could happen was for his dad to want to check if he indeed was sick, given the fact that even the worst case of the lurgy wasn't going to explain how Paul suddenly looked suspiciously like his younger brother.

"Don't lie to me, lad."

"I'm not lying," Mike lied. "Please dad, I just want to sleep, alright?"

"Suit yourself. If that's your story, then I expect you to stay up here all night. If you decide to act like an adult, I'll see you downstairs in a minute. I suggest you choose wisely."

The door closed with a snap, instantly reducing the sounds of talking and laughter to a monotonous droning noise. Very carefully, hoping his dad had actually left, Mike peeked out from under the sheets. He was alone. Breathing a sigh of relief, he crawled out of bed and fixed his hair and clothes, hardly believing he actually got away with it.

A minute or two later, he looked and felt somewhat calm again, at least enough to pass his family's sniff test. He swore some of them had a sixth sense for detecting mischief. Grinning to himself, he closed the bedroom door behind him. If his quick thinking didn't earn him the title 'brother of the year', he didn't know what did. Paul really owed him, Mike thought, as he casually wandered back downstairs to get himself a well-deserved drink.

 

**-*-**

 

**8 July 1961**

 

**Paul**

 

"Are you alright?"

Paul grunted some sort of acknowledgement. He couldn't very well say that the only reason he was being sick was the massive hangover he was experiencing. Not that he would have to explain much at all if his father would see him. For what felt like the millionth time, his stomach spasmed, forcing him back into that dreaded position, hunched over the bowl. Surely, he had to be empty by now?

"Do you want me to call the doctor?"

"No," he hiccuped, "I'll be fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Really, dad, it's nothing. I'm sure I'll be feeling better soon," he croaked, closing his eyes trying to fight back a renewed wave of nausea. Why the hell did he drink so much?

"Alright then, I'll see you later."

The sound of the back door told Paul his dad had left for work, meaning he'd surprisingly managed to get away with sneaking out. If he'd been discovered, he definitely would have heard by now. Not that he felt too victorious about it. He was feeling far too miserable to do any celebrating.

As he leant back against the door of the cramped space, Paul buried his head in his hands, attempting to remember the previous night while he waited for his stomach to settle down. His mind was still too clouded by the alcohol to recall much of what happened, but he was sure he'd had fun. How could he not have, with everyone there?  
Fairly convinced it was safe to move away from the loo, he struggled to his feet a few minutes later and rinsed his mouth.

With most of the sour taste gone, Paul shuffled into the back room where he decided to take his chances with the cold toast and lukewarm tea that was still waiting for him on the dining table, reckoning he ought to be able to keep that down, at least. The optimist in him reasoned it might actually make him feel better. He gave up after the fourth bite of toast, finding it nearly impossible to swallow, even after chewing for what seemed like an eternity. If it weren't for the tea, he wouldn't have managed to force it down at all, so he admitted defeat and pushed his plate away. Sighing, he lowered his head into his arms, too tired to drag himself back to his bed.

But by bit, random moments of the night before started to form a scrambled image with massive holes in it. Fractions of memories, blurry and distorted, swam around, not quite connecting, but slowly getting clear enough to assure Paul he'd had a great time. He recalled a group of lads chasing Richie 'round the pub so they could give him his birthday bumps, a singalong around the piano, drinking, dancing a merry waltz with Richie's mum Elsie, eating, drinking some more, talking to many people whose names and faces he knew, but couldn't produce. He was quite sure Neil said he'd stop by to discuss...?

Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. Discuss what? He didn't know. John seemed to be present in many of the recollections. One stood out: John getting angry at the sight of the bruises on Paul's cheek. It was nice to know he still cared enough to get upset about that. The strange mood swings had worsened over the past weeks but it would seem they spent most of the night hanging out with or near each other and getting along better than they had in ages. Apparently, they had walked home together as well, or much of the way anyway. He remembered pieces of slurred, disjointed conversations of which he could only recall bits and pieces.

For some reason, there seemed to be a lot of people in colourful clothes walking around in his memory. Had they gone to another party? Paul couldn't make heads or tails of it. Then there was stuff about not knowing which way to go, and about falling over. Well, that made sense. At least, he knew where he got those scrapes and bruises now. More talking about who knows what, and...

Paul's head began to spin frantically as his head snapped up. The sudden movement aggravated his headache to the point of seeing black for a moment and his stomach churned dangerously in response to the shockingly clear memory. Aided by a surge of adrenaline, he made it just in time to the loo, though some sick ended up down his front anyway. Grimacing at his ghostly reflection in the kitchen window, Paul stumbled to the sink to wash his hands and wipe the smelly stain off his shirt.

Fairly sure he wasn't going to be throwing up anymore, Paul slumped back down in his seat and buried his head in his arms, wishing the offending memory would go away as quickly as it emerged. Unfortunately, it just kept repeating itself in time with the merciless throbbing of the headache from hell. Getting drunk was one thing. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. Doing crazy stuff whilst kaylied wasn't exactly unheard of, either. This, however, was a first. Of all the impossibly stupid things he could have done, of all the unforgivable mistakes he could have made, he chose the worst of them all.

Why had he done it? What, in the name of all that was holy, had possessed him to kiss John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cousins I mentioned are Ted and Kate Robbins, who are Paul's cousins once removed, and both of whom are still close to him now. Their mother, Bett (Elizabeth) was Paul's first cousin. She and baby Ted can be seen in the photos of Paul and Jim at the beach in 1957. This is the same Bett Paul was going to visit when he had the moped accident that left him with the scar on his lip.


	18. Don't Bother Me

**8 July 1961**

 

**John**

 

For what felt like hours, even though he was aware it hadn't been very long at all, John was sat on the top step of the stairs, arms crossed over his knees and his head resting on top, listening to the subdued sounds of the house he grew up in. He'd positioned himself there, just out of Mimi's line of sight, hoping the telephone would ring for him.

He'd been waiting for a call from Stu for ages, and if ever he needed to talk to him, it was that moment. Of course, the telephone remained silent. They'd called or written regularly when Stu first got into that prestigious art college of his, but the frequency had soon diminished over the past year and now that he had found himself a bird, John rarely heard from him anymore. As far as John knew, he hadn't even come home anymore since his brief visit to celebrate the winter holidays with his family. It hadn't been much of a problem to John when he had Paul to talk to but now, he rather missed his old school mate.

Then again, he pondered, perhaps it was just as well he hadn't called yet. As much as he wanted to talk to someone he could trust - and Stu was the only person he knew to be open minded enough to hear him out without passing judgement - maybe it was too soon to tell someone. Quite possibly, it would be best to never mention it to anyone at all. Honestly, what had got into him, and how was he ever going to make it right? Kissing Paul... Who in their right mind would fucking do that? Obviously, John Winston Lennon would. Drunk or not, that was the stupidest stunt he'd ever pulled. No wonder the kid had run off as if he was being chased by a ghost...

Groaning, John buried his head deeper into his arms. He just wanted to forget but the harder he tried, the more he remembered. Granted, it was a bit blurry, like a telly not quite tuned into the channel, but there was no way to pretend the memories that constantly repeated themselves before his mind's eye weren't real.

It had been the wee hours when Paul and he left Richie's party. Or, more precisely, were asked to leave, what with it being closing time and all. They'd wandered about for a bit until eventually, they managed to find a bus stop, which was quite impressive given the fact neither of them was able to walk in a straight line. Hell even staying upright proved itself an impossible feat. Well, not for him, but for Paul. He'd ended up on his bum twice that John could recall, and for some reason, they had both found it hysterically funny.   
Bloody waste of energy anyway, trying to find a bus. The driver wouldn't let them on. Something about the bloke having no desire to clean up after them which, in all fairness, very well might have been necessary. So, went and had got utterly lost.

After wandering about aimlessly around what turned out to be North Toxteth, near the docks, they had come across a party of some kind, and in a moment of clarity, Paul had suggested they ask for directions. Judging by the colourful clothes and the festive atmosphere, they'd walked into some sort of celebration, to which they were welcomed with open arms by what he remembered as a large number of Indian people they never even met before. John had no idea why; he wouldn't have taken in a pair of rowdy, pissed blokes if the situation was reversed.

He supposed it was a cultural thing, some obligation or somesuch. Or maybe that bloody charmer he had with him had worked his magic again. How did Paul do that, anyway? Even drunk as a lord, people instantly liked him and wanted to pamper him. In this case, John had been welcomed equally fast. He recalled how the heady smell of incense had greeted him. John hadn't meant to hang about and he had a vague recollection of Paul politely trying to decline too, but they were made to sit down and they were given food which bore a pungent smell of unfamiliar spices, but that was nothing compared to how it burnt its way down his throat.

It was by far the most peppery food he ever ate. It didn't taste bad at all and John loved a good curry, but the sensation of taste buds being scorched wasn't very pleasant. He nearly choked on it and all but coughed up a lung which seemed like a rude thing to do but he couldn't control it, nor could he stop his eyes from watering profusely. Paul wasn't doing much better although he managed to compose himself enough to insist it was very good and that he'd very much want to try it again sometime. He even had the presence of mind to ask what it was. At least, that's what he seemed to be asking. He wasn't being very coherent, but their hosts seemed to understand anyway. Vindaloo, they said.

More like find-a-loo, John thought. He certainly needed one, not much later. For some reason, the stuff didn't seem to agree with him, or perhaps the copious amounts of alcohol were to blame. Either way, he ended up chucking it all up again, shortly before Paul and he reached the point where they'd each have to take a different direction, which ended up being sooner than he expected because finding their way home turned out to be fairly easy once that tiny bloke, Rajesh or something, showed them to the tracks after they finally managed to explain they couldn't stay.

They'd followed the rails into Allerton, even managed to get some sort of disjointed marching rhythm going, which John had rather enjoyed for some reason. Well, when he wasn't doubled over to throw up, of course. Oddly enough, Paul had kept everything down just fine. If anything, the food seemed to have cleared his head a little bit. He wasn't falling over anymore, for one thing. By the time they reached the place where their paths split, they stopped to say goodnight. If only it had ended there. Had they simply said ta-ra and gone their separate ways, there would be no need for John to feel miserable.

The thing was, they didn't. By the time they got to that bridge, John had sobered up enough to notice Paul had a bee in his bonnet, and John sensed it'd have something to do with how he'd been treating Paul for the past six weeks. The relentless chewing on his bottom lip was a dead giveaway. The way he wouldn't look John in the eye was another hint that Paul didn't have anything good to say. He seemed at odds with himself. He was probably too bevvied up to censor himself, though, because when he opened his mouth, the words had come tumbling out so fast, it was hard to keep up.  
  
"Are you mad at me, Johnny? Have I done something wrong, is that why you've been so shirty with me lately? If it's something I've done, just tell me, alright? Just... Just tell me what's wrong."

No matter how slurred those words were, there was no mistaking he meant them. It was so rare for Paul to let his guard down and show his insecurities like that. How he could think he'd done something wrong, though, John had no idea. Sure, he'd been a nasty, moody bastard as of late, but how could that fool not see how much he cared for him? Cared way too much, in fact, in ways blokes weren't supposed to, where other blokes were concerned?

There were so many things John had wanted to say, things for which he couldn't find the words in his sluggish mind. No matter how hard he tried to think of something, he came up with nothing. And Paul just stood there, waiting for reassurance, standing so close, looking so good... Perhaps that was the thing John remembered most vividly. In the orange light of the street lamps, Paul's eyelashes had cast long shadows over his cheeks, the curve of his lips had seemed even more defined than usual, and when he finally looked up, his eyes had appeared black as coal. Was it any wonder that there was only one thing left on John's mind: the same thought that had haunted him for weeks?

He could have sworn it was mutual. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. For a few magical seconds, it most definitely seemed like Paul was kissing back. Hell, if he didn't know any better, he would have thought Macca initiated it. But he did know better, didn't he? If they both wanted it, it wouldn't have ended with Paul wiping his mouth and muttering something along the lines of that kiss being disgusting. He wouldn't have looked like a deer caught in headlights if he'd felt the same way John did, would he? So, rather than stick around for more humiliation, John had turned around and fled the scene without so much as a word.

With any luck, Paul wouldn't remember any of it. John could only hope. But what if Paul did remember? As far as he could see, then two things could happen: either Paul would stick his head in the sand and ignore it, or he'd turn his back on John like so many others had done already, for various reasons. Either way, he'd find out soon enough. Until then, John decided as he lazily stretched his limbs before slowly descending the stairs, he just wanted to get out of the house and distract himself. With any luck, Rich would be awake and game to spend his last day in town chasing the birds. Perhaps, if he acted as if nothing had happened, it would all just go away...

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

A low, heartfelt groan pushed its way out of Paul's chest. What did the sun have to be so bloody bright for? And those birds really ought to sing a bit quieter as well. Better yet, they could go to someone else's garden and bother them instead of him. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, instinctively raising a hand to stop the daylight's assault. Right in his line of sight stood something that wasn't there earlier, he didn't think. He identified it as a steaming cup, filled to the brim with a black liquid. He stared at it blearily until a familiar voice made him lift his head.

"Four minutes," Neil said. "In case you were wondering how long it took for you to smell that and wake up."

He wasn't wondering that at all, so he took it at face value. "Oh. Hey."

"Eh up, Paul. Alright?"

"When did you get here?" Christ, his mouth was dry. It was a wonder he could speak at all, really. If that's what you would call the sound he produced anyway.

"About fifteen minutes ago. Could've robbed the house," Neil grinned annoyingly cheerfully. "You would never have noticed. I take it the party went on for a bit after I left?"

"Must have," Paul shrugged. Time had become rather a vague concept after a while. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the construction crew inside his head to stop drilling holes in his skull. When he dared open them again, he frowned at what was in front of him. "What's all of this, then?"

Neil shook his head in bemusement. "It's this new thing they invented," he deadpanned. "Maybe you heard of it. It's called coffee. And that other stuff is something dead fancy. Food, I think is the correct name."

"Wanker." The coffee seemed a bit suspicious - there wasn't any milk in it for starters - but Paul decided to drink it anyway. With any luck, it'd make him more lucid. He regretted it instantly. "Fucking hell, are you trying to poison me? That's disgusting, mate. How much coffee did you put?"

"Enough to wake the dead, apparently."

Paul blinked slowly. There had to be a pun in there, or Neil wouldn't look so smug. "What?"

"You heard me: enough to wake the dead. Meaning you. It revived your rotting corpse, didn't it?" He rolled his eyes when it became apparent Paul still didn't get it. "Christ, talk about ruining a good joke. You reek, Macca. Is that blunt enough for you? Go on, drink up. Do you want an aspirin as well?"

"No," he grumbled, reluctantly taking a few more sips of the revolting liquid whilst skillfully ignoring the bacon butties Neil had made. They looked harmless enough, but looks could be deceiving. After all, this mug of liquid tar that was masquerading as coffee hadn't looked anywhere near as offensive as it tasted, either. "I don't want an aspirin. I'll need at least two. Or twenty."

"Great," he beamed, "you can get them yerself when you go up for a bath. And a shave. And while yer at it, clean yer teeth. I think you just killed a fly by breathing at it."

That one, at least, didn't go over Paul's head. "Heartless bastard."

"Happy to be of service," Neil grinned, clearly not the least bit offended. If anything, he seemed to take it as a compliment.

"So, why are you here? And why aren't you hungover anyway?"

"Because unlike some people I know, I know exactly when to stop drinking to avoid having to pay the piper. You ought to try it some time, la'." He simply laughed at Paul's rude gesture, and continued, "anyway, like you said yesterday, it's our last weekend of freedom. Why not milk it for what it's worth? I reckon we could go to the clubs, hang out a bit, maybe get laid before it's back to the monastery."

"Monastery?" Paul couldn't suppress a chortle despite his misery. "I bet you'll have rubbed one out even before lights out on Monday. I don't think you'd qualify as a monk, Nell."

"And you would? Anyway, nice change of subject, but yer not getting away with it that easily. Go'ead, mate, let's make the best of the time we've got."

"Fine, but just you and me, alright? I don't feel like seeing anyone else right now." It wasn't entirely true; he gladly would have hung out with Richard. It was John he rather not face. Christ, what if he remembered? Paul preferred not to think about the many ways John could make his life hell. It was far too easy to imagine, what with him already having lived through that for so long.

"Alright, if you insist. Hurry up then, eat your butties. We haven't got all day."

"I rather not risk it after that revolting stuff you called coffee." He shuddered at the aftertaste that lingered. "You make a terrible housewife, Neil."

"Put that in writing for my future wife, will you? It might save me from ever being made to do the dishes," he laughed. "Come on, get up then."

"And do what?"

Neil rolled his eyes. "Take a bath, of course. You don't smell any better than you did two minutes ago when I said you're decomposing, son."

Even if he had any desire to move, Paul's legs wouldn't cooperate. They felt like porridge. "I think I prefer just sitting here."

"Can't get up?"

"Pretty much that," he admitted, "and dizzy as hell. I can see two of you, you know." He squinted in Neil's direction.

"You know what I think? You're not just hungover, yer still half drunk." Neil rounded the table and offered his arm. "Come'ead, then. I want to go out and I'm not leaving without you."

With a little help - or actually quite a lot of it, Paul managed to drag himself up the stairs. Getting down had been a lot easier, but then having to spew did tend to make anyone run fast. Having conquered the first hurdle, he realised his pyjama had to come off. The top wasn't the issue. Getting the bottom and his underpants off without falling over, however, was. Trying to save face, Paul decided to brush his teeth and rummage through the cupboard for some aspirin first.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you," he sighed at Neil after he finished gulping down a second glass of water. The addressed had filled up the bath for him and was now leaning against the door frame with a mocking smirk on his face.

"Yep," he chuckled. "Aren't you going to take off the rest? Most people do, before getting into the bath, you know."

"You're still here."

"Don't be such a baby. There's nothing you have that I haven't seen before. Remember that time your mum put us in this tub together after we fell through the ice?" Neil stuck out his little finger in jest. "You were this little, then."

"I was twelve," Paul huffed. "It was cold!"

Neil's laughter bounced off the walls and made Paul wince. "Just get out, Neil. I can get in by myself, you know."

"Bet you can't."

"Sure I can," he countered, desperately trying to figure out exactly which technique would be the least compromising.

"You wouldn't have this problem if you'd just eaten those butties, you know. I can hear your stomach growling all the way over here; no wonder you're feeling wobbly." Neil shook his head when Paul still made no effort to actually step into the tub. The idea of sitting on the lip and sliding in backwards briefly occurred to him but he'd dismissed it just as quickly. Chances of hitting his head were probably more than fair. Somehow, Neil seemed to have read his mind.

"Look, I'd be happy to leave you to it, but something tells me yer dad would be slightly miffed if you drown. He likely won't be too pleased if you break the plumbing, either," he added when Paul reached for the pipes to keep his balance. "So stop being so fucking stubborn and just lean on me, will you?"

"Fine," he sighed. The whole ordeal could hardly become any more embarrassing anyway, he reckoned, as he finally sank into the hot, soapy water. "Are you going to scrub my feet too?"

"There are limits to my loyalty, mate," Neil grinned. "I'll just go and pop this putrid stuff into the washing machine and then I'll be in the nuclear disaster area you call a bedroom. Give us a shout if you need help, yeah?"

"I think I can manage now, Neil," he grinned. "Thanks anyway, mate."

"Don't mention it. Start thinking of ways to repay me, instead. Buying me a pint of bitter will be a good start."

A little over an hour later, as they got off the 86 at Elliot Street, Paul felt like a different person. He had to admit: Neil made a pretty good nurse, albeit one with the worst possible bedside manner. The bath, the food - which wasn't quite as bad as he feared - everything combined had worked wonders. The sunlight was still a bit too bright, so he put on a pair of sunglasses which fixed that problem and made him look cool in the process. Despite his earlier reservations, Paul was actually beginning to look forward to the rest of the day.

Neil seemed to have it all figured out: the first goal was the Cavern, which wasn't too wild that early in the day. However, there would be plenty of girls to help get their minds off the fact that in less than forty-eight hours, they'd be on the train south and away from home for six months.

If it was up to Paul, though, they wouldn't stick around very long at all. The band was shit, for starters. He didn't even bother finding a seat, but stood underneath one of the archways instead, watching as the drummer bashed on his kit, very loudly, and very much out of time. The singer and the rest of the band were alright, he supposed. Not brilliant, though. They wouldn't be getting very far, that much was evident. They didn't seem to have any songs of their own, and their covers were not the best he ever heard. Neil must have read his mind.

"Bloody awful band, isn't it," he said in the relative quiet between two songs. "You sang that tune better when you were thirteen and your voice was breaking!"

"Terrible," Paul agreed. He glanced around, trying to gauge the audience's opinion. They seemed to be divided. It was mostly the girls that seemed to be enjoying the performance, probably because of the drummer who, despite having very little musical talent, wasn't an ugly bloke.

Not all the birds had their eyes on the band, though. Before long, a girl Paul once had a casual carry-on with, came up to them and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she said as she took a step back to take a good look at him. "I didn't think you could get any sexier, Paul, yet you managed it. Where have you been hiding, then? I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Hey Pam," he grinned. He'd almost forgotten how incredibly uninhibited she was. He doubted any other girl in Liverpool would say and do the things she considered acceptable. "The army got me, luv. Neil too," he added, jerking his head in the direction of his friend. "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, you know, this and that," she cooed. "How about a kiss then, eh? Or aren't you happy to see me?"

"Everyone's always happy to see you, Pamela dear," Neil chuckled. "Aren't they, Paul?"

Since the girl in question already took matters into her own hands, which meant Paul couldn't offer Neil a snarky reply, he settled for flipping him the bird.

"Maybe we should get together again sometime," Pam grinned when they broke apart. "I've missed you." She gestured at another girl, sitting in the audience. "Not now, though. I've already got plans."

"Sure, why not." Paul shrugged. "We'll be off to the barracks on Monday but I could give you a ring when I get back, you know. Won't be earlier than Christmas, though."

"Oh, that's alright. I'm sure I'll find some way to occupy my time." She pecked him on the lips once more, and said, "Gotta go. Call me, yeah? Oh, and that bloke over there is looking at you; I think he wants a word. Ta-ra, Paul."

In the blink of an eye, she was gone, not that he minded. She was always good for a laugh and a shag, but he'd never considered seriously dating her. Her unusual, liberal attitude simply didn't fit Paul's idea of a future spouse. He knew she wouldn't mind if he never called, either. Pamela Bennett was many things, but she wasn't the pining kind.

In the meantime, he scanned the rest of the room, looking for whoever it was she had seen. It didn't take him long to figure it out: John was there. He had a bird in his lap who appeared to be utterly fascinated by John's tags, which reminded Paul he really had to tear his room apart soon if he ever wanted to find his own, which seemed to have vanished. Apart from having his hand up her skirt, John appeared to have forgotten what he was doing, as his eyes bored straight into Paul's.

If anything, the scene confirmed he'd made a colossal mistake by kissing John. A sense of panic took hold of him. How could he have been so stupid? Suddenly, he just wanted to get out of there. Paul yelled an excuse into Neil's ear, struggling to make himself audible over the noise the band was once again making and left.

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

He and Richie had been sitting there, heckling the band for a while when he saw two familiar shapes standing underneath one of the frontmost archways. By the looks of it, Neil and Paul had literally just walked in. They didn't appear to have noticed them yet, anyway. John didn't particularly want to be seen, either. Yet, he couldn't take his eyes off the pair. About two minutes went by before some blonde came up to Paul. The way she behaved, and the speed with which they went from talking to snogging troubled John. Those two obviously had a past, but Paul hadn't mentioned finding a new bird. Who was that tart?

After the girl left, Paul turned his head, spotted John, and almost immediately looked away again. John saw him lean over to Neil and say something to him, after which he took off in the direction of the staircase leading up to the street whilst Neil stayed where he was.   
Well, that answered his question right there, didn't it? Paul obviously remembered what happened, or he wouldn't have taken off at the sight of him. Apparently, he couldn't bear to be in the same room as John. If he could, he wouldn't have done a runner.

John tossed back the rest of his pint and leapt up to go after Paul, pretty much throwing the bird he had snared off himself in the process. He had fully intended to shag her to get his mind off the previous night's events, and she appeared to be willing, but he had different matters to tend to now.

The thought that had plagued him all day consumed every last bit of reason and replaced it with anger. He just knew not wanting to be in the same room meant one thing: Paul was going to turn his back on him. Oh, he'd probably be sneaky about it, letting their friendship slowly wither and die rather than be a bloke and confront the issue. Not if John could help it, though. He was going to take matters into his own hands. This time, he'd be the one walking away, not the one being left behind.

Once he emerged from the dank Cavern, he looked around to see Paul walking down Mathew Street, headed home, probably. "What's the matter, McCartney,” he shouted at the retreating figure, “not man enough to handle the situation? Fucking coward!"

 

**-*-**

 

**Ringo**

 

It took him a few moments to process what was going on. All of a sudden, John had leapt up and barged off without so much as a word, leaving a rather dazed girl behind. He watched in confusion as John made his way towards the exit, pushing past Neil, who he hadn't even noticed before, and who looked just as flummoxed as he felt. His instincts told Richard to go after John. Even though he didn't know what happened, he could almost smell trouble. Neil seemed to be thinking the same, and together they ran up the stairs, reaching the street in time to see John storming down Mathew Street. His goal appeared to be Paul, whom he hadn't noticed before, either.

"What's going on," he asked Neil, who stood next to him.

"I have no idea, Rich," the other shrugged, "but I don't like the look of it. Are they havin' a barney again?"

"I haven't a clue, mate. They were thick as thieves when they left last night."

"Well, they aren't now," Neil stated superfluously. Anyone could see John and Paul weren't on friendly terms. And if anyone had any doubt, the way John was shouting definitely gave it away. "We had better get over there, Rich, just in case it comes to blows."

They worked their way through the rapidly growing crowd of onlookers and positioned themselves near enough to jump in if things got ugly, yet far enough away to avoid being a threatening presence. Paul saw them and seemed to signal them to keep their distance. On the surface, he seemed in control of the situation. Richard knew him well enough by now to see the cracks in his veneer, though. He could hear the strain in the lad's voice, too, when he spoke to John.

"What do you want me to say about it? You and I made our positions clear on this, there isn't much else to add, you know. You don't sort of disagree on this, John. Either you see eye to eye, or you don't. We don't."

"It's that simple then, is it?"

Paul shook his head. "I'd hardly call it simple, John. But what's done is done. It's not going to be repeated, is it? I don't see why we should dwell on it."

Whatever he was referring to, his attempts at diplomacy only appeared to aggravate John even further. If it wasn't that already, the scene was turning into a lose/lose situation before Richard's very eyes.

"No, god forbid you should face the consequences of your actions, right? Better pretend it didn't happen," John continued to sneer, his voice rising dangerously, "that's what you do, isn't it? Too bad it doesn't work like that, Paul. Maybe you can put on yer blinkers and ignore it, but normal people can't."

"What's the alternative? It was fucking humiliating, John. Do you really want to go over it again?"

Richard looked at Neil and muttered, "Do you know what the hell he's talking about?"

"Beats me, mate, but did you notice that thing with Paul's voice? He's about to lose it, Rich. I've seen him crack before, it won't be pretty."

John was yelling again. "Yeah, you wouldn't want to remind yerself of how much of an arse you made of yerself, would you?"

"...And there he goes," Neil groaned.

Ringo could see it, too. It was as if a mask came off. Up until then, Paul had been fairly composed, surprisingly calm - at least visually - even. Not anymore, though. He had always known the otherwise so balanced kid had it in him, but it still took him by surprise to see him blow up like that.

"I'm an arse? Have you looked in the mirror lately, John? You're always telling me to be more open and honest. And now that I have done just that, I'm the bad guy? What the fuck do you want from me? An apology? Fine, I'm sorry for hurting your precious ego, alright? It must really suck, not being in charge of a situation. Well, guess what? Welcome to my world! Because that's exactly how I've been living these past weeks."

John didn't seem as impressed as Ringo was. He just got angrier by the second, it seemed. "You done?"

"You wish! I'm tired of not knowing which version of you I'm going to see next and having to adapt to whatever it is you're feeling. Oh, Johnny's gorra cob on, better leave him alone. Hey, he wants to be mates now, well, isn't that just gear? Oops, no, he's changed his mind again, better keep out of the way. Well, I've had it up to here, John. I'm not taking any more crap from you. Just leave me the fuck alone."

When he turned and started to leave, Neil tensed up. "He shouldn't have done that," he muttered, "You don't turn your back on John when he's like this. Look at him, he's fuming. We better be ready to jump in, Rich."

He agreed. Things were looking grim and Paul's refusal to engage John any further only seemed to make matters worse. The crowd seemed to sense it, too. When John roughly pushed Paul in the back in an obvious attempt to provoke him, a few people walked away, whilst others moved in closer, eager to witness a fight. For a moment, Richard and Neil got distracted to the point of being unable to hear what John and Paul were saying.

When they elbowed their way back to where they could see their friends, the situation had already escalated. Before either of them could stop him, John roughly grabbed Paul from behind in what could have been a very effective headlock if he had moved faster. Ringo reckoned the two pints of beer he had, were enough to muddle his reflexes, because his attack was instantly countered by a quick defensive move from Paul. Not a second later, John was flat on his back, as a result of a rather messy, but nonetheless effective hip throw. He was kicking and squirming to break free, with very little result. he was pinned down quite well, and no amount of writing was going to change that.

"That's enough, Paul," Neil warned, "it's not worth it, mate. Let him go."

"I don't want to fight you, John," Paul said as he lifted his forearm off the other's neck and shoulders, "but I will if you force me to."

He slowly stood up, his face a mess of conflicting emotions. It was rather disturbing to Richard to see him like that, and he couldn't help but wonder what possibly could have happened in those few hours to cause the kind of clash he just witnessed. Whatever it was, it had certainly knocked Paul for six, and John wasn't doing any better. Paul turned to Neil and Ringo, and muttered, "make sure he gets home alright, will you?"

"What about you," Ringo inquired, "are you okay?"

Paul didn't respond to the question, at least not with words. The way he raked his hands through his hair, however, said more than any number of words could have. "I just want to be alone for a bit, Rich. I'll see you on Monday, alright?"

Neil tried, too. He reached out to touch Paul's arm. "What's this all about, mate?"

"That's between me and him, Neil. Just... Try to keep him from getting into any more trouble. I have to go." Without looking back, Paul walked off with an uncharacteristic slope to his shoulders.

"Do you think he'll be alright? Maybe one of us should go with him," Ringo suggested, feeling more than a little worried.

"Don't bother, you won't get another word out of him now. You don't have to worry, Richie," Neil said when their eyes met. "The best thing you can do for Paul now is to leave him alone. I'll give him a ring tonight if you want."

"Cheers, mate." He directed his attention at John, who appeared to be sulking. "Let's get this one home then, shall we?"

"Good plan. Come on, John. On yer feet."

 

**-*-**

 

**10 July 1961**

 

**Neil**

 

It took a while, and he definitely got some annoyed looks from people as he peered into each compartment, searching for a familiar face, but he didn't care. Neil Stanley Aspinall was a man on a mission: to find one John Lennon and try to salvage what was left of his friendship with Paul. Deep down, he suspected he wouldn't make much headway in getting those two to talk again since neither had been willing to answer questions about what happened so far.

Still, he had time to kill, what with Paul being thoroughly interested in a three-day-old newspaper, which gave him an excuse to avoid the elephant in the room. So, with not much else to do, Neil excused himself and set about searching for John. Neil found him seated near the far end of the train, where he either claimed an otherwise empty compartment or managed to chase off any company he might have had. Whichever it was, he was alone and looking somewhat dejected.

Neil resolutely barged in and positioned himself across from John, who looked up for about a second to see who was disturbing him. Once he identified the intruder, he shrugged and continued to stare out the window. Neil wasn't that easily deterred, though.

"Eh up, John. Alright?"

"Fine," he muttered after a pause.

"Still stroppy, then?"

With a sigh, he met Neil's gaze. "Naff off, Nell. I don't want to talk about it, right?"  
  
"Well, tough. I do," he replied, ignoring the death glare John gave him. "Alright, out with it: what the hell has Paul done to make you behave like this? I thought you were best mates."

"Who's asking, you or him?"

"I am," Neil sighed. "Paul doesn't know I came to find you. As far as he knows, I'm taking a crap. So, what the fuck got your knickers in a twist?"

For a moment, John hesitated. He seemed to ponder his options before he snarled, "It's none of your business, but if you must know, he's shown himself to be a piece of shit. He had me fooled for a while, but not anymore, Nell. He's a cold-hearted bastard."

"And you base that on what, exactly? One barney?" Neil let out an incredulous chortle. "Whatever you two argued about, I'm pretty sure you got the wrong idea because what you just said doesn't sound like Paul and I do believe I know him a wee bit better than you do, mate."

"Doubt it."

He guessed it was better to ignore the idiotic statement. No, Neil knew for sure that what he should do. However, he decided to take the bait anyway. "Oh, do you now? Let's see... I was nearly twelve when I got to know Paul, and I'll be twenty in October, so that's eight years. You've known him for what; a year? Half of which you spent making his life miserable. So don't you go telling me what Paul's like. You know fuck all about him."

"I know stuff you don't."

"Oh really? Try me."

"I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, you'll forgive me for saying yer blowing it our yer arse, then." John's stubborn behaviour was really starting to get on Neil's goat. Why wouldn't he just say what the problem was, so they could move forward? "Look, John, I really don't think you're seeing this straight. He may be a scrote sometimes, but his good qualities make up for it in spades. If you were honest, you'd agree. The same goes for you, by the way, except you're making it very hard to like you right now. If you want me to change my opinion, then give me something to think about. But as long as you can't be arsed to say why you've binbagged Paul, I've got no reason to think any less of him."

"Why are you even here then," John grumbled, still more interested in what happened outside than in meeting Neil's gaze. "Seeing as how you've already picked a side."

"I haven't! Yer both my mates," Neil shrugged. "I just want us all to be alright. You know, be the barmy bunch of Merseyside misfits again and have our weekly S.S. meetings. Is that too much to ask?"

John shook his head and butted out the cigarette he had been smoking. "Don't hold yer breath, Nell. I've had my fill of McCuntney."

"Oh, back to childish name-calling again, are we? Bloody mature, John. Just.... wow," Neil said angrily, adding a few slow claps to underline his disapproval. "You've worked it out before. You can do it again."

"I don't see it happening, Nell. He's got his mates, and I've got mine, and that's how it's going to be. Take it or leave it. You can't have it both ways."

Neil didn't get it. Everything had been fine on Saturday. More than fine, even. John and Paul had basically been joint at the hip all night to the point of other people feeling excluded. Twelve hours later, they seemed to have resumed their old feud, and neither wanted to say why. Well, at least this time, it seemed to be one-sided. It was clear Paul didn't want to fight. Perhaps there was more to it, but from his point of view, John was the unreasonable one. Still, he'd be friends with both if they'd let him. He'd done it before. "I don't see why I have to choose. I consider you a mate as well. But yeah, I'll choose him if you force me to pick a side."

"Well, that settles in then, doesn't it?"

"Only if you decide it does, John." Oh, what he wouldn't give to just slap some sense into that lad. "Whatever's got your knickers in a twist, I suggest you get the fuck over it. One fight and you just declare war on him again? After everything you've shared the past six months? That's radical, even for you. And don't even try to pretend you don't care. Just man the fuck up, work it out, whatever. But just sack it with this stupid row, la'."

"Are you done?"

All this effort, and for what? It was like talking to a brick wall. "You're being an idiot, John."

"Ta-ra, Nell. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

When Neil returned, Paul looked up from the paper he wasn't reading. "So, how's John?"

"What makes you ask that?"  
  
"You've been gone for nearly half an hour, Neil," he reminded him. "Not to mention you look like yer ready to kill someone. Either you've got the worst case of the shits in human history, or you've been to see John. And since the bog is that way," he added, pointing over his shoulder, "I'm fairly sure I figured you out."

"Alright," Neil grinned, "you got me."

"Well?"

Neil's smile faltered. "Let's just say he made me pick a side."

Whatever Paul had expected, it wasn't that. When Neil rang him up on Saturday night, he'd told him they had no problem getting John home. Considering how aggressive he has been before, he'd been quite easy to handle after Paul left. They'd chatted about nothing in particular for a while, and they had even had a cuppa at Mendips before they each went their separate ways. Or, that was what Neil had told him, anyway.

He had no reason to doubt it, really. After all, he and John had got along great, even during the time John and Paul had been each other's enemies. He hadn't been made to choose, then. Then again, John hadn't realised they already knew each other. In any case, things seemed to be more complicated than before, and he felt responsible for it. After all, if he hadn't... "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," was Neil's simple response. "I chose you, by the way, in case you were wondering."

"Thanks. Do you think he's alright, though?"

Neil shrugged. "Why would you worry about that?"

"I just do."

"Yer daft," he grinned.

Perhaps he had the right idea, Paul mused. Sulking in a corner wasn't going to change the situation. Whatever was going to happen, it was better to just handle it one step at a time, rather than worry about what was way up ahead. Losing John's friendship was a drag, and it might be over for good, or it might sort itself out over time. Either way, he still had other friends. He might as well make the best of it and be grateful for what he still had, rather than lament over what he lost.

"Anyway," Neil said, tearing Paul out of his reverie, "I passed through the restaurant car, and the coffee smells great. Let's go get a cuppa, and maybe some buns or something. I'm absolutely ravenous."

Frowning, Paul looked at his watch. It seemed a bit early for anyone to be 'ravenous' when it wasn't anywhere near midday yet. "Are you? It's a quarter to eleven; when did you last eat?"

"Oh, must be..." Neil counted on his fingers which Paul knew to be just for show since his mate was great at maths, "three hours ago."

Paul couldn't help but laugh. "No wonder, then. Let's go before you die of starvation."

"Great! You're buying."

"What? How do you figure that one out?"

"Simple," Neil chuckled. "You owe me. Seeing your bare bum the other day scarred me for life, you know."

"Did it?" Shoving his misery as far out of sight as he could, Paul pulled Neil into a hug with a theatrical wail. "Poor darling!"

"Careful, or I might change my mind and choose John's side," Neil giggled, struggling to break free.

"You won't want to do that, mate. I've seen his arse. It's far worse than mine."

"Oh well, in that case, I better stick with you. You're still buying, though." Ignoring Paul's huff, Neil smirked, "Oh, and you still owe me a bitter as well, tight-arse!"

 

-*-

 

No sooner had Paul left the registration office, or Neil pretty much pounced him. "Well, which dorm are you in?"

He'd been called in a bit earlier than Paul had and had decided to wait for him rather than settle in straightaway. The whole process of reporting for duty, handing over the results of his physical exam and receiving his dormitory assignment didn't take long. Apparently, though, Neil considered those five minutes to be very lengthy indeed.

"I'm in your old dorm," Paul replied as he hitched his bag up a bit higher.

"Really? Gear, me too. That means we're roommates now. I wish I'd known before we left, though," Neil muttered, pulling his forehead into a frown. "I could've left half of my stuff behind if I had known I'd get the same locker again."

Paul vividly recalled the previous day's struggle of getting everything back into his duffle bag after leaving his stuff all over the house for seven weeks. "Ah, but then you wouldn't have experienced the joy of cramming all your crap into a bag that's two sizes too small to hold it all."

"Fair enough," Neil grinned. "I probably would have felt a void in my life if I had missed out on that."

"My point exactly. You should be more mindful of those things, you know. They're really...." Paul stopped dead in his tracks, which resulted in Neil crashing into him. He barely even noticed the painful collision of Neil's teeth into the back of his shoulder, nor the muffled curse behind him; he was too dismayed by what he saw. "Oh, crap."

"What'd you stop for, Macca," Neil groused, checking his face to see all his teeth were still there. "Bloody hell, that hurt."

"Sorry. Guess who else got assigned to A-dorm?"

"Don't tell me..." Apparently convinced he was still in one piece, Neil left his face alone and turned to look in the direction Paul was indicating, where the problem was very easy to identify. The Scousers were always some of the last to arrive given the distance they had to travel, which meant there was only one deserted quarter left in John's vicinity. "And you're in the quarter next to his," Neil concluded.

"Yeah," Paul sighed. "Consider the odds, eh?"

"It's a drag mate. Still," Neil said as he dumped his luggage on the bed assigned to him, "it could be worse."

Paul set his own bags down as well and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah, how's that?"

"You could have got the bunk next to Lewis."

"How is that worse than bunking next to John? I like Mick, he's funny."

"You wouldn't be laughing if you shared a dorm with him, son." There was a mixture of disgust and amusement in Neil's eyes. "He farts. A lot."

"So? We all fart, Nell," Paul laughed. "I just blew one off a few minutes ago, you know."

Neil pulled a quasi-serious face. "Yeah, about that... I wasn't going to mention anything, but that one was pretty lethal."

"It's my secret weapon, you know. What I lack in military skills, I make up for in poisonous gas."

"Well," Neil laughed, "try not to deploy that particular weapon of mass destruction when I'm in the room, alright?"

"Can't make any promises on that, mate." It was nice to really laugh again, Paul reckoned as he grabbed his things and jerked his head in John's direction. "Anyway, I might as well get this over with, you know. Farting about isn't going to make it any easier."

Thus far, Neil had managed to stay somewhat straight-faced. The childish pun, however, made him lose his composure completely. Wiping the tears from his face, he grinned, "don't let him get under yer skin, Paul."

"Cheers, mate. I'll try."

"You do that. And if he starts acting like an arse again, just give him a dose of that deadly gas of yours. Make sure to warn me first, though. I'm too pretty to die."

Another round of giggles attracted several stares. "Yer daft, you know."

"Of course I am, I hang out with you, don't I?"


	19. I Want To Hold Your Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited most of this chapter whilst having a headache, so please forgive any weird errors. Other than that: enjoy ;-)

**31 July 1961**

 

**Paul**

 

Perhaps, Paul mused as he shuffled back to bed, it’d be better to stop drinking. Of course, that was easier said than done. The oppressive heat made it near impossible to sleep and caused his throat to be as dry as the Gobi desert, so he hadn't been able to resist temptation and ended each visit to the loo by sticking his face under the tap and guzzling copious amounts of water. The consequences were evident: it had barely gone half two, and so far, Paul had been forced to spend a penny four times in as many hours. He was knackered, fed up, and still thirsty. If only he could get some rest, like everyone else in the dorm seemed able to do, he might feel a bit better. But as he sank down on the mattress that had cooled ever so slightly in his absence, knowing the relief of that would only last a few moments before everything would be sweaty again, Paul realised that even without the heat, he probably still wouldn't have slept a wink. Not with his mind all fucked up like it was.

Sighing, he discarded his somewhat moist sheet, allowing it to fall wherever. There wasn't much more to get rid of by now. The blanket had spent the entire night neatly folded up atop his footlocker, but that was something nearly everyone had done. Only three absolutely mental blokes were actually using theirs. Next to go had been his T-shirt. Paul hadn't bothered folding it, but just balled it up and dropped it somewhere near his blanket. Now, with the sheet gone, the only thing left between his skin and the humid air was his pants, and it didn't seem the best thing to do to take those off. There was a time when he might have done it, and it wouldn't have been an issue. But given recent events, Paul didn't think it wise to get completely naked. Somehow, he didn't think John would take it kindly.

Paul turned onto his side and stared at John’s sleeping figure. He’d started out the same way he had every night since their return: with his back turned. About an hour ago, he’d turned around and had been facing Paul since. Thus far, Paul had avoided looking at John. The sight reminded him too much of what he’d lost. Now, he decided it didn't matter where he looked. It wasn't as if the same bloody thing wasn't on his mind all the time anyway. It had been for three weeks now, after all.

Three weeks since he'd made such an idiot of himself. Twenty-three days, to be exact, and there still weren't any signs of improvement in the situation between him and John. On the surface, it didn't look nearly as bad as their original feud had been. Paul supposed that objectively, it wasn't. He’d got better at ignoring John than he wanted to be, and it would seem John was trying to do the same because save for the occasional jibe, he hadn't said much to Paul, either. They pretended to be fine when they were forced to work together, but their interactions were frosty, and the moment the class or the team activity was over, they were back to pretending the other didn't exist. For Paul, it was a matter of protecting his hurt ego. The rejection had put a massive dent in his pride. Then again, what had he expected? He hardly could expect John to fall into his arms, could he? Just because he'd turned into a freak, didn't mean anyone else had the same problem.

In the meagre light provided by the lamppost outside, Paul could clearly make out every angle and curve of John’s body, and he hated what the sight did to him, even now. If anything, those feeling he'd been trying to bury had got stronger as time went by. But, when did they start? And for fuck’s sake: why? He’d been so happy when he and John became friends. Paul supposed it wasn't fair to Neil, Richie, or any of his other mates to value John that much more, and it certainly wasn't to George. Paul felt guilty about kicking George out of the ‘best mate’-seat in order to put John there. He’d promised it wouldn't happen and yet, it had. And George knew it. Then again, was it any wonder, considering the experience John and he shared? Nobody else could fully understand that, but they did. They knew. Paul understood John's pain and vice versa. So maybe it wasn't so strange that they'd bonded so quickly.

The big question remained, though: why did it have to change? In hindsight, Paul supposed it had been a long time coming. He just never allowed himself to think anything of it until his birthday. Those six pages of hastily scribbled words in his journal were shocking to read even to him, but that was mainly because it had all been so brutally honest about his desires. Reading them in his own handwriting was terribly confronting, but deep down, he’d already known. In hindsight, it probably went a lot further back than just those few weeks of misery. Hadn't Paul been a little too concerned when John didn't show up at Easter? Hadn't he felt a bit… Rejected by that? Could it explain why he'd been so reluctant to accept John’s apology for what ended up being an honest mistake?

How deep did this go, anyway? When did his feelings change into… This? Before, Paul had simply loved John. That didn't seem wrong to him at all; he loved George too, and Neil, and Mike, and his dad, and so many other people as well. His mother had taught him to be a kind and loving person, and she taught him well because he was. Liked to think he was, anyway. It was a good thing, love. But now, it felt perverted, wrong. Now, he didn't just love John anymore. He was in love with him.

In love... with John Lennon of all people. Why couldn't it have been a girl, like it ought to be? If he had to fall arse over elbow for someone - as he always ended up doing sooner or later anyway - why did it have to be a bloke? Surely, Paul mused, if he was.... like 'that', he'd know, wouldn't he? Sure, he’d suppressed memories before, to the point of thinking people were having him on when they reminded him. But those were always little things, silly things. Something as big as that couldn't just be forgotten, could it? Paul was quite sure he’d have to remember if he’d ever fancied a lad before. It just didn't sound like him to be involved in something like that. Blokes getting it on with other blokes… It was the kind of stuff that went on near the docks, or in those seedy clubs, people would whisper about. It didn't happen to normal people. But. He definitely fancied John. So, did that make him abnormal?

An overwhelming surge of grief gripped Paul’s heart, the acute pain of it enough to make him gasp. If only his mum had been around. She wouldn't be happy to hear the son she had such high hopes for had these disturbing thoughts, but Paul was sure she’d hear him out. He couldn't think of anyone else he’d want to talk to, and knowing the one person who'd comfort him was no longer alive, made him feel terribly lonely. There wasn't anyone else to confide in, as far as he could tell. Well, Mike, maybe. But he was just a kid so it wouldn't be fair to burden him with it and besides. This wasn't something to discuss in a brief telephone call. Paul couldn't think of a single other person who might accept it and offer some advice.

Somehow, he’d have to figure it all out on his own and deal with it. Since John was clearly normal and wanted nothing to do with any of it, Paul guessed he’d have no choice but to try and get over his feelings for John. Perhaps, once they were safely locked away, he could explain it away as a drunken indiscretion. They might even have a good laugh about it. If John ever spoke to him again. Either way, he couldn't tell the truth, least of all to John. Admitting what he really felt would make it permanent. No going back from that, ever. So, nobody could know. In less than a year, he’d be back home, away from the Army and John, and all of this would be a thing of the past.

Perhaps he shouldn't go back to Liverpool at all, Paul wondered. Maybe starting a new life elsewhere would make it easier to forget about John. Either way, with a bit of luck he’d find himself a new girlfriend. If it was a nice girl, he'd probably marry her quickly, and start a family like he always knew he wanted. Like normal people did. He'd have a job, a wife, and some babies, and he'd be normal. Then, there would be no reason for these disturbing thoughts of doing things to John, things he only had done, and only ever wanted to do to girls. Maybe that was it, anyway. Perhaps he only felt this way because there weren't any girls around to keep him thinking straight. With any luck, it would be just a phase, something he'd outgrow once he got laid a few times. But then… How did that explain his lack of interest when that girl at the train station flirted with him or the total absence of any physical reaction to Pam snogging him at the Cavern? Paul couldn't wrap his head around it and he wasn't entirely sure he even wanted to.

For a few moments, it seemed like the endless train of thought that had robbed Paul of his sleep for the past weeks was going to repeat itself all over again, until a vague and unfamiliar noise brought it to an abrupt halt. Not sure what the sound was or where it came from, Paul impatiently wiped the tears from his face and tried to even out his breathing so he could focus on what it was that he heard. Once he blinked away the blurriness from his eyes, it was easy to see the source of that sound was John. Paul hadn't noticed before, but he now clearly saw how John’s face had adopted a tormented expression. He wasn't sleeping calmly anymore either but was moving restlessly, a worrying sight which was only made worse by the uncharacteristic whimpers he uttered every now and then.

The last time Paul saw anyone toss about in their sleep like that, had been at scout camp, the first summer after his mum died. Someone had woken him up in the middle of the night, saying something was up with Mike. He was obviously having a nightmare, and he could easily guess what it was about. It wasn't until Paul shushed him that the lad went quiet, and no sooner had he left the younger kids' dorm, or Mike had been just as upset as before, so he ended up sleeping in the Scouts’ dorm, with an arm wrapped around his kid brother. It hadn't been the most comfortable sleeping position, but if that was what Mike needed, then he was happy to do it, even if Paul’s fellow Explorers sniggered about it a bit. After all, their mum had done the same for him when he got bullied so badly he’d have bad dreams about it.

John didn't have a mum. Or a brother. Or anyone else, really. Would he want to be comforted by the one person who was awake and willing to help? Wouldn't it just make matters worse if he were to go near John when he was in such a vulnerable state of mind? Paul didn't really want to risk adding fuel to the fire. But then, what would he want if the shoe was on the other foot? Would he want John to just sit back and let him be distraught? He had his share of nightmares, they’d been quite bad for the first few weeks after his mother died and there hadn't been anyone to help then, so it wasn't too difficult to imagine being left to face them alone. He’d been there, and it wasn't pleasant. If the roles were reversed, he'd want John to do the right thing, too, so Paul quietly got up and crouched by the side of John's bed.

"John," he whispered, "wake up. It's just a bad dream, mate."

Paul repeated the process a few times, even tried gently shaking John but it was no use. Just like Mike, all those years ago, John was too fast asleep, stuck too deeply inside that dream to be pulled out of it so easily. If he didn't calm down soon, though, he'd end up waking up half the lads in their dorm. Feeling rather self-conscious and more than a little anxious, Paul dug through his memories to recall what had comforted Mike, and what his mum used to do for him. The idea of doing something like that to someone who hated the very sight of him was, to put it mildly, awkward. It took a lot of willpower to shove that aside, but eventually, Paul managed it. For about a minute, it looked as if his efforts were fruitless but eventually, John started to relax.

And then, he woke up.

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

Little by little, the haunting images of the blackest moments in his life dissolved, until they hovered just outside his conscience, like mist over water on an icy winter's morning. They were there still, lingering, reminding him of the anguish they represented, but soon they would just evaporate under the light of day; hidden and harmless until such time they would find their way back into his dreams for a reprise. John knew this to be true since he'd gone through the cycle many times already. Long ago, when he was little, Julia would hug him and sing to him to calm him down. Even Mimi, with all her stoic pragmatism, would hold his hand until he felt better. But neither the youngest nor the oldest of the Stanley sisters were present, yet someone had managed to chase away those demons.

John could feel the feathery touch of fingertips on the back of his head and neck, moving in a seemingly random pattern. It felt strange and unfamiliar because as far as John could tell, nobody had ever done that before, yet it felt so natural and calming. But there was more: a strong hand, holding his and again: a light stroking motion, back and forth over the back of his hand in a hypnotic rhythm. Something Mimi used to do when she showed her gentle side. He smiled a little when he heard someone whisper words of reassurance in a soothing tone which almost made it sound like singing. It somehow seemed familiar, but whose voice was it? Not Julia... It sounded different. It was a lower register, not the kind of sound a woman would make. It sounded more like...

"Paul?"

John missed the touch against his skin the moment those comforting hands were abruptly pulled away. He had caught himself wondering what it would feel like to be caressed by those long, slender hands he’d admired for so long. Now he knew, and it was unlike anything he imagined: stronger than a woman's touch, more calloused too, yet undeniably tender. In those few seconds, John had developed an instant addiction to the sensation. Now that it was gone, it seemed impossible to go on without it. He just wanted Paul to touch him again, wanted for that caress to never stop.

He hated himself for even entertaining the thought. He was fucked up enough without having queer feelings for his best mate. And yet, there they were. He knew it, as much as he wanted it to pretend like it wasn't true. For weeks, months even, he had projected his insecurities on Paul, pushed him as far away as he could, hoping those feelings would just go away. And if they didn't, then Paul definitely would, which would give John a reason to hate him. Maybe then, he wouldn't have to deal with the visions that haunted him day and night. Or so he had told himself, foolishly and unconvincingly.

A part of him had been glad when that kiss happened. The rejection hurt, and he knew for sure now that he was barking up the wrong tree, but he'd always have the memory of those few seconds of those lips against his own. That was something, even if it was all he'd ever get. Paul wasn't queer, no matter how many blokes would use his soft features to accuse him of being bent. But deep down, John knew he could do it. He had always known, no matter how much he tried to deny it to himself and everyone who'd even remotely suggest it. Paul could never, that much he knew now, but he knew he could. He liked girls, very much so, but he could envision himself falling for a bloke.

If it was the right one.

He just didn't want it to be Paul. Anyone else, sure, but not him. Well, actually he did, very much so in fact, but he couldn't afford to want Paul to be more than just a friend. He valued their friendship too much to fuck it up by adding romance to the dynamic. If he acted on it, assuming Paul would humour him and go along with it, he'd undoubtedly end up wrecking it just like he always ran every one of his relationships into the ground. He would be the happiest bloke on the planet if he could be with Paul, right until he fucked it up and lost him. And if - no, when - that happened, he wouldn't just lose a lover. He'd lose the best friend he ever had. And then, it would probably be permanent.

So, he had taken matters into his own hands and chased his friend, the closest ally he ever had away, just to make sure he wouldn't be the one to be left behind. Perhaps he was wrong about it; maybe Paul wasn't going to abandon him after all. He didn't appear to be happy about the renewed animosity. Perhaps, once he sorted out his feelings and learnt to handle them, he'd be able to mend things and restore their friendship. Until then, he couldn't risk revealing his innermost thoughts, so he had no choice but to alienate Paul.

And yet, there he was. Against all odds, after all of the shit he put him through - again - he was there when John needed him. And now, he was retreating, explaining, saying he'd leave him alone. But that's not what John wanted. He’d never felt good about pushing Paul away even if, in his crazy reality, it was the only logical choice. He didn't want to be left alone. Leaving him alone was all everyone ever did, and he was sick of it. For once, he wanted someone to just, fucking stay!

"Don't go. Please."

It hadn't been more than a hoarse whisper, so low and quiet John himself could barely hear it, but Paul clearly heard. Even in their relatively dark surroundings, and even without his glasses, John could see the surprise on his face.

"What is it you want from me, John?"

"Can we talk? Somewhere private?"

"Fine," Paul sighed after a pause, looking more deflated than John had ever seen him.

Sounded it, too. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Paul had been crying. If he had, though, he wasn't showing it. John could nearly literally see a wall being pulled up. Not a very promising start. More likely than not, he expected more abuse. Again, John couldn't blame him. He had, after all, attacked Paul from behind and attempted to strangle him. Not the kind of thing that would make a bloke trust you. Still, the fact that he agreed to talk was promising. John got up and followed Paul towards the showers; the only place they would be able to talk without being interrupted, given that nobody ever went in there after lights out.

"Alright, John," Paul grumbled the moment they entered the cavernous echo chamber. Clearing the air without anyone hearing them would be a task, what with the sounds bouncing off the walls like that. Obviously, Paul thought the same because he lowered his voice as he completed his sentence. “You wanted to talk. I'm listening."

John's eyes hadn't quite adapted to the darkness yet, so he could see little more than an outline. Paul's body language wasn't exactly welcoming; he stood with his arms folded tightly across his chest and his back against the wall: a stark contrast to the gentle touch he used minutes earlier. The fact that he was wearing nought but a pair of pants didn't make it any easier for John to gather his wits. "I don't know where to start."

"Oh, I don't know, at the beginning?"

He didn't look well, that much John could see. There had been a healthy colour on Paul's cheeks for most of the summer holiday, and his eyes had sparkled with something he could only describe as 'life'. He'd been a different, much happier person. It was almost painful to see how quickly that had changed. In less than three weeks, he'd lost that rosy colour and at least half of the weight he'd put on in Liverpool. His tan - if you could call it that - and the freckles were still there, scattered around his eyes and all over his nose, but underneath, he looked wan. Rather than draw attention due to their cheeky sparkle, Paul’s eyes now stood out because of the dark circles underneath, indicating a chronic lack of rest.

John knew he was mostly to blame for it. He'd slowly come to realise the mistake he made. Little by little, he'd come to realise that just possibly, if he'd been honest about the whole thing, Paul might actually not have turned his back. If Paul had indeed wanted out of the friendship, then he wouldn't look so unhappy, would he? John wasn't too pleased about it, either. He missed the close companionship, the banter, the music. He just didn't know how to get it back. There was still the issue of his unrequited feelings. If they couldn't clear that up, would they ever be able to be friends again?

How could he even begin to explain why he'd been behaving the way he had? Was there any other way than to just show it? It couldn't get any worse, anyway. John wanted to show he was sorry. He wanted to make it alright. And he wanted Paul to understand. More than anything, John needed him to know that what stood between them wasn't hate, but love. John also knew he had to be careful and not behave like a bull in a china shop for once. The only problem was, he realised it after he clumsily smashed his lips into Paul's, hoping to finally get the message across. He knew he probably shouldn't do it at all, that this wasn't the best way to go. After all, it wouldn't be reciprocated. But he reckoned there wasn't much left to lose anyway. He just wished he'd been a bit more graceful about it. It only lasted a second or two, and then he got pushed away rather brusquely.

"That's low, John, even for you."

Even though his voice was gruff, there seemed to be something else than anger underneath the surface. The feeble light coming through the small windows reflected off Paul's eyes, which seemed unusually shimmery. Before John could strain his eyes enough to get a clearer image, he turned to leave. John knew he probably shouldn't; realised that he had already come dangerously close to wrecking the last chance he had at reconciling, yet he couldn't stop himself from grabbing Paul's wrist to stop him from walking away.

"Geroff," Paul spat angrily, his Scouse accent flaring up. John had long since noticed how Paul’s measured accent tended to get stronger when he was upset, making it much clearer to hear that he'd spent most of his childhood in Speke. "You said you wanted to talk, and then you pull a stunt like that? You don't have to keep kicking, you know, I'm already down. And will you let go of my arm already? You're hurting me."

It took those last few words for John to become aware of how tightly he was squeezing. He instantly let go, stammering, "I didn't... I wasn't... Fucking hell... You really don't get it, do you?"

"Look, whatever you're trying to achieve here, just don't, alright? I get it, I made a mistake," Paul said as he rubbed his wrist, avoiding John's stare in the process. There was now a different, more mournful tone in his voice. "I've realised that from the moment you buggered off. Why else did you think I avoided you? I was fucking embarrassed. I'm sorry for what I did, alright? Can you stop treating me like some villain now?"

"What are you on about? You're embarrassed? What about...." The sound of someone using the adjacent lavvy caused John to jump and abruptly stop his rebuttal. For several moments, they stood frozen, listening for any indication of having been overheard. When the coast was clear, he released the breath he'd unconsciously been holding. He lowered his voice to a hiss and resumed his rant.

"What about me, Paul? How do you think I felt about how you reacted? I shouldn't have snogged you, right? But you could've just knocked my teeth out, like. No need to be an arse about it and say how disgusting it was.”

"I'm sorry I said that, you know, but it was dead grotty! You'd just been sick and-...” Halfway through his explanation, Paul froze and his eyes widened. “Hang on, what?"

"All I'm sayin' is," John sighed, "you could've made it clear without making me feel like an idiot, Paul."

"No, that's not what I meant,” Paul muttered, shaking his head. Why he looked so confused, John had no idea. At least, he wasn't spitting fire anymore. “You said you snogged me. But you didn't. It was me. That's the problem, isn't it? Isn't that why you did a runner?”

John stared blankly at Paul for a few seconds. He could almost feel the cogs in his head whirling around, trying to process the new information. "Are you saying that you..."

"Kissed you, yeah," he nodded slowly. "And then you buggered off. Why else did you think I avoided you, John?"

With a shock, the pieces fell into place. "Jesus Christ, Paul..."

“Both of us? At the same time?”

“Looks like it, doesn't it,” John muttered, grappling to catch up. This changed everything.

"But then... I mean... So all this time you thought... And I thought.... But you’re not…. Are you? Seriously?" Seemingly frustrated with himself, Paul roughly raked his hands through his hair and sighed deeply, puffing out his cheeks in the process. If anything, it was obvious he had a difficult time coming to grips with what they'd just figured out.

At any other time, John would've found Paul's inability to string two words together amusing. But now, as a pregnant silence settled between them, John got nervous. He knew he had to do or say something, what? Was it alright to try again, or would that wreck everything? He wasn't even sure he could muster the courage now. It had been alright when he was drunk, or when he was frustrated, but now it was different. Now, it was real. If he kissed Paul now, chances were he'd kiss back. He could just as easily run off, and John wasn't sure his ego could deal with the rejection a second time. Then again, he hadn't disappeared yet. Paul looked a bit lost, and his eyes were skittering everywhere that wasn't John, but he didn't have that closed off stance anymore.

John swallowed thickly as he slowly inched his hand towards Paul's, not sure if it was time yet for such a simple, yet intimate gesture. As their fingers curled around each other, he noticed they were both a bit shaky, and his eyes sought Paul's for a hint of what to do next. Well, at least Paul was looking at him now, that was progress, wasn't it? John had a difficult time reading the expression in Paul’s eyes. Conflicting emotions seemed to swirl around at a dizzying pace, but there wasn't any rejection there; no indication that he should stop.

As if they had a mind of their own, John's eyes slowly wandered down towards Paul’s lips, his heart missing a beat at the sight of the tip of his tongue darting out. It only lasted a fraction of a moment and John recognised it as one of Paul's nervous tics, yet it made him feel all funny inside. Unable to stop himself, John reached up to trace his thumb over the curve of Paul’s upper lip. He didn't fail to notice Paul's throat working in response to the intimate gesture, nor did the feeling of another man’s stubble beneath his fingers escape John's attention. He’d never kissed someone with facial hair before. Not properly, anyway…

John allowed his hand to follow the curve of Paul’s cheek down to his jaw and neck until it reached the small patch of chest hair he'd looked at so many times now. He didn't have any himself and even though Paul didn't have that much of it either, it was still the first time feeling those coarse hairs underneath his fingers. John could feel Paul's heart beating a jungle rhythm beneath his fingertips, not unlike the way his own heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest.

Slowly, John traced the thin trail of body hair down, taking in every little response. He felt how Paul’s abdominal muscles twitched the moment he reached them, and he heard how Paul’s breath hitched when he reached the point where the trail got thicker, just around Paul’s navel. Looking up, he saw a hint of panic skittering across Paul’s eyes. He wasn't pulling back, but it was clear that John had pushed as far as he was allowed to go. Maybe it was for the best, he reckoned as he ceased moving his hand downwards and elected to place his hand on Paul’s waist instead. The last thing he wanted was to move faster than either of them could handle.

Hoping it’d be alright, John slid his hand a bit further back and gently pulled Paul into his personal space until they were just about chest to chest, just a hair’s breadth from fully touching. It was then that he noticed Paul’s hand on the nape of his neck, applying pressure to narrow the gap. For a moment, their faces hovered mere inches from each other until, at long last, it was Paul who closed his eyes first and brushed his lips against John’s, leaving it up to John to turn it into a proper kiss.

When their lips finally locked together, it was like electricity coursed through every fibre of John’s body. This was it, this was what he needed. He savoured the moment, took his time to register every detail of what he considered their first kiss. Whatever lay ahead for them, there would always be the memory of Paul's taste on his lips, the scent of his skin, the slightly ragged breath brushing his face, mirroring his own. He'd always recall that prickly stubble beneath his palm when his free hand moved up across Paul’s face to push itself into his hair whilst the other moved further towards the small of his back. John would never forget the sensation of Paul's fingertips playing with the short hair right above the nape of his neck, or his other arm pulling them closer together.

John meant for it to be a chaste kiss. Somehow, it seemed like that was the right way to go, and he would have been happy to leave it at that. But once he got going, suddenly all of his good intentions evaporated and when Paul nudged his lips apart, he didn't hesitate to comply. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to John that he’d never tasted another man’s tongue and that he never expected to let anyone invade his mouth like that: slowly and gently, but with a definite air of possession. None of his girlfriends had ever even tried to dominate him, and he certainly wouldn't have allowed it if they tried. For some reason, it seemed to be right now that Paul was the one doing it. No, right wasn't the word for it. It was so much more than that.

What was it? Destiny? Whatever it was, it felt better than John could ever have imagined and it wasn't until he caught himself moaning into Paul’s mouth a little too loudly that he carefully broke the kiss. Slightly out of breath, John pressed his forehead against Paul’s until his heart began to calm down. Of all the first kisses he'd had, this seemed to be the one he'd been waiting for all of his life, and as much as he knew he should, John couldn't even begin to regret it. If anything, he now knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasn't going to let anything stand in his way.

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

It was rapidly becoming the most confusing night of his life. When he’d reluctantly agreed to talk, Paul never could have imagined he'd end up in John's arms, locked in one of the best kisses he'd ever shared with anyone. That kiss... If he'd felt unbalanced before, that was nothing compared to how it was after. He was reeling, there was no other word for it. What was it about kissing John that was so much more exciting than doing the same thing to a girl? Was it the illegality of it, knowing that what he was doing was considered wrong?

With the initial rush of adrenaline gone, Paul couldn't help but worry. He’d not only shared a kiss with his best friend, he’d enjoyed it, been aroused by it, and wanted more. Much more. What did this entail? Did this mean he was queer now, and would he be able to handle that? Would his family, if they ever found out, or would they shun him? Could it even work, wasn't it too risky? Would he end up in prison for it? Did he really want all of this, or was it just the novelty of it that had pulled him in? And what about John, how did he feel about what just happened?

"Hey, are you still here?" John's voice was quiet, yet it jerked him back into reality.

"What? Oh. Yeah."

"What are you thinking, Macca?"

"Nothing," he smiled weakly, "I'm fine."

John's eyes scanned his face with an expression of concern. "Look, if you don't want this, just say so."

"No, that's not it, John."

"Well, what is it, then? Don't shut me out."

John reached out and took hold of Paul's hand, more resolutely than he had in the silence leading up to their kiss. It wasn't just that, either. There was something in his voice that told Paul John felt a lot more resolute about this than he did. "Just talk to me. Do you want this, or don't you?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Paul admitted. "I mean, I do. I think so, anyway. I've been thinking about it a lot, you know."

"You have?"

He nodded slowly, trying to find some clarity in the jumbled mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions. "Yeah. Didn't understand it at first, mind you. Still don't, I suppose. Not completely anyway. It's bloody confusing, isn't it?" Not sure what else to say, Paul raised his right hand to his face and absentmindedly gnawed on the thumb, only very vaguely aware he'd managed to make it bleed again.

"I guess."

He looked at John, half expecting him to elaborate further, which he didn't. "But?"

"I don't know, Paul," he shrugged. "I mean, sure, I didn't know what it was at first either, but I know what I want. It's not rocket science, is it?"

"Maybe not for you," he said carefully, "but I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it, you know."

"Any objections in particular?"

The slightly acerbic edge to John's voice made Paul pull his defences up a bit, not enough to completely shut him out, just so much that he could hide behind it if the conversation went sour. "I didn't mean it bad, John. I’ve never felt like this about a bloke before, I don't think. It's weird to suddenly realise something you didn't know about yourself, you know? Don't you have any of that? You know, don't you wonder what this says about you, or what the consequences are n'dat? Aren't you scared at all? I am."

His explanation seemed to pacify John, and he could feel him relax a bit. "Well sure, in a way, I guess I am. But what, then? Can you go on pretending it doesn't exist? Is that what you want?"

"I don't know. Like I said, it's difficult. There's a lot to take in. Don't tell me you've figured it all out."

"Why not? I want you, alright? I know that much," John stated matter-of-factly. "I don't want to want you, but I do. What about you, then? Don't think, just say the first thing on yer mind. What do you want?"

"You." In a way, it was liberating to just say it. "I want you. Us. This. Whatever this is..."

"Well, at least we got that sorted out," John grinned, mirroring the smile Paul couldn't get off his own face, before boldly grabbing the back of Paul's neck and pulling him in for a quick kiss.

"So, does this mean we're… You know…”

“Queer,” John provided. “I guess it does. Problem?”

A part of Paul screamed ‘yes’ because, in a way, he still didn't see himself that way. But then there was that other part which had been wanting to be with John for a while now. “No, I wouldn't say problem. It's just… I never thought of myself as… that…. You know? I reckoned I should've known by now if I was.”

“Just use the bloody word, Paul,” John grumbled, rolling his eyes. “You won't go to hell for saying ‘queer’, right?”

“Alright. Queer. Happy?”

“Delighted.” For a few seconds, John seemed to stew on something. “I don't have any answers, Macca. I know what I feel, and to me, this feels right. I know you liked it too, or you wouldn't have had that reaction to snogging me,” he smirked, indicating the somewhat compromising state of Paul’s midsection.

“Yeah, well.”

“Don't worry about it so much, Paul. It's okay to be queer, there's no shame in it.” He jerked his head in the direction of the small windows near the ceiling. "It's getting light. We should get back to the dorm if we don't want to get caught.”

He was right, Paul noticed. The sound of a single blackbird penetrated the silence, and in the distance, they could hear the regiment church's bell strike four. They'd been so engrossed in each other that neither noticed the darkness had started to become less intense as the sky had gradually begun to lighten. In just two hours, First Call would be played, meaning they'd have to get up, get groomed, and prepare for that day's activities.

Paul dreaded the thought. He had nodded off a time or two during the night, totalling in an impressive two hours of sleep. If he looked anything like he felt, he'd be in for another scolding from Neil, who seemed under the impression that yelling at Paul about taking better care of himself would somehow make his insomnia go away. Easy for him to say anyway, Paul thought. Neil usually fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, and even World War Three breaking out next to his bed wouldn't wake him up. He sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes.

"Alright, let’s talk more later, then. I’m too knackered to think clearly anyway. Maybe a kip would help."

"Yeah," John chuckled, "You need to work on yer beauty sleep, luv, or I won't be wanting you anymore."

"Have you looked into a mirror lately, Lennon? You've looked better too, you know," Paul jested. "What makes you think I won't lose interest in you?"

"My magnetic personality, son. You won't be able to keep away from it," he grinned, pulling a face that was probably meant to look alluring but only managed to make him look ridiculous.

"Oh no, I'll never be able to resist that," Paul snorted. "Anyway, there's one other thing we should discuss, you know."

"Which is?"

"What do we tell the lads? Neil, especially. We can't just get up and carry on as if the past three weeks never happened, that would only make people wonder."

Rather than answer the question, John buried his face in his hands and groaned loudly. "Fucking hell... I owe Neil one hell of an apology."

"Yeah, you do," Paul nodded. There was no use denying it, anyway. "But he's cool, he's not going to make you beg or anything. He's always forgiven me when I was a shit, you know. Besides, he'll be happy to know we're not fighting anymore."

"You sure?"

"Of course, don't worry; bring chocolate. Nothing with coconut, mind. He hates coconut." Paul paused a moment. "What do we tell him, though? Today, I mean. If we say we've spent half the night talking, he'll only give me another one of his sermons about having to sleep more. I'm sick of those, you know."

"We’ll barely see him for two days, will we? He's not on our team." John lifted one shoulder, giving the impression that it all seemed perfectly simple to him. “We can pretend nothing's changed for now. We’re supposed to share a tent, right, so he’ll probably assume we talked it out then. No need to make it more complicated than that.”

"Sounds great, Johnny," Paul yawned. He leant over a bit, so he could rest his head on John's shoulder. He had sat like that several times before, but it felt different now, more intimate. He liked it.

He could hear the smile in John's voice when he murmured against his hair. "Comfortable?"

“Hmm."

"Paul? Yer not sleeping, are you?"

"Nearly," he mumbled, abandoning the struggle to keep his eyes open.

"Well don't. I'm not yer bloody pillow."

"Not?"

"No, you nit," he laughed. "Tell you what, though."

Paul made himself a bit more comfortable. "Alright, what?"

"We should skip this bloody exercise. You know, bunk off,” he elaborated, lowering his voice in a way that left little room for speculation about how John wanted to spend those two days. “We’d have some time alone together.”

Reluctantly, Paul sat up and eyed John with scepticism. The idea of having the privacy to talk properly and maybe do some things that didn't involve speaking was tempting, but he wasn't entirely convinced it was a particularly clever plan. "Do you think that's wise?”

"Probably not. So?" He shrugged, much to Paul's surprise. Out of the two of them, it was John, after all, who actually enjoyed being in the army. Hearing him seriously propose playing truant was more than a little mind-boggling. "It's only the first one, Paul. Besides, you look like yer ready to keel over anyway. Bit of rest wouldn't hurt you."

"Wow, cheers for that, John."

"Oh, you know what I mean," he said, nudging Paul's shoulder affectionately. “But fine, suit yerself, I'm going to come down with the lurgy, with or without you."

"I'll think about it." Uttering a heartfelt groan, he scrambled to his feet and offered John a hand. “Let’s get back, yeah? People will be waking up soon.”

"Told you so,” John tutted, as he allowed himself to be pulled up. Once John was on his feet, Paul turned towards the sleeping quarters until a sudden pull on his arm forced him to stop. John, who was still clutching his hand, hadn't moved an inch.

"John? Are you okay?”

Paul didn't require an answer to suss out why John hadn't moved. The look on his face spoke volumes anyway. It was plain to see that despite his earlier confident demeanour, John was struggling to process the events of the past hour just as much as Paul was. Of course he was; John wasn't stupid. He knew they couldn't have picked a worse place to fall in love if they’d tried. Paul also didn't have to think too far back to know that having these feelings for a bloke was probably not as easy to accept as John would want Paul to believe. And more likely than not, he had the same worries about what would happen if people found out.

Who could be trusted? Who would accept it? Who would turn their back, or worse? Would their families and friends turn their backs on them? Would someone report them to the police? Would either of them end up dead at the hands of someone unable to accept the love between two men? Would they even be able to ever go back home to Liverpool, where men were supposed to be masculine and strong, and definitely not buggering each other?

They had each other, but would that be enough? Paul didn't know, and if he interpreted John's expression correctly, neither did he. He might have put on a brave face, but Paul knew John well enough to understand that deep down, he was just as scared of the unknown. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around John, and buried his face in his shoulder whilst John did the same. Time ceased to exist for a while as they were frozen in it, holding each other tightly, unmoving, not needing any words to communicate. It wasn't until John cleared his throat that the spell was broken.

"I know how you feel," Paul muttered, gently disentangling himself from the embrace. He decided that it was time to return the favour John had done him earlier, that it was now his turn to be strong, which was easier said than done. "We'll be fine, Johnny. No matter what happens, we'll face it together, alright?"

"Us against the world, right?”

“That’s right,” Paul grinned as he gave John a quick peck on the lips before dragging him back to the dormitory, “us against the world.”

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

He'd fallen asleep the moment he hit the bed, but since that was less than two hours before they had to get up, it didn't do much good. Not that it mattered to John; he had made up his mind. He was going to stay in bed, come hell or high water. Pretending to be sick wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing to do, though. If he produced any more sweat, he'd be able to fill a swimming bath simply by squeezing the moisture out of his bed sheets. It had to be convincing, of course, so John pulled the covers up a bit higher and pretended to be on the brink of death.

Next to him, Paul was getting dressed, carefully avoiding any eye contact as he did so. Going on as planned then, John concluded. He wished he'd just call in sick, too. He'd been put on bed rest due to exhaustion before, so John reckoned he wouldn't even have to pretend since a blind man could see just how knackered Paul really was. Still, if he wanted to keep going until he dropped, that was his prerogative. John just would've hoped that after their enlightening discussion and that incredible kiss, Paul would have decided to stay at the barracks so they could get to know each other more intimately. Apparently, that was too much, too soon for Paul. John couldn't really blame him, but he still felt a pang of disappointment.

"Hey Macca, hurry up, man! Breakfast is getting cold."

"In a minute, Neil. I'm nearly done here," Paul shouted back, as he pulled the gear he needed for the two field days out of his locker.

John was definitely one of the people who had been looking forward to these exercises. Practising stuff like tracking, sniping, stalking, and whatever else they might do on the battlefield was one thing when they did it on the grounds near the barracks. Being dropped in unfamiliar territory where the terrain was a lot more demanding was something else entirely. Normally, he would have jumped at the opportunity. Not now, though. John had no intention to spend the day in full battle dress, camouflage face paint and all, playing war in this stifling heat. He could feel the sweat running down his arse crack just thinking about it, or perhaps that was the result of his deliberate attempts to conjure up the most convincing fake fever of all time.

"Come on, Paul! What's taking you so long?"

John managed to turn the amused chuckle at Neil's impatient outcry into a sickly groan. For all his calm and composed demeanour, Neil sure was shirty before breakfast.

"You could've gone without me, you know," Paul told him, as he sauntered towards the door. "I think I can find the mess on my own."

The little back and forth became less audible as the distance between the two friends shrank, until a loud crash, put an end to the quiet. "Fucking hell Macca, are you alright?"

The alarm in Neil's voice made the men who were still puttering about the dorm look up in surprise, John included. He sure hoped Paul hadn't hurt himself, but by the sound of it, something must have gone terribly wrong.

 


	20. If I Fell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not proofread this before posting because it's late and I want to go to bed. Please ignore any weird sentences. I'll fix them tomorrow.

**31 July 1961**

 

**John**

 

John knew himself to be many things: intelligent, quick-witted, loyal, generous, rebellious, talented, hot-tempered, et cetera. Patient wasn't on that list. Never had been, and he was dead sure it never would. So, being forced to wait hours and hours to find out what happened was nothing short of torture for him. Sadly, he had very little choice but to endure it.

Looking back, it was a miracle he’d managed to control himself as long as he had. John's first instinct when he heard that crash was to leap out of bed and check to see Paul was alright because it sure sounded serious enough. Somehow, he’d suppressed the urge to do so, and stayed in bed, hoping that whatever tumble Paul had made, had been part of the same plan that had John sweating like a pig. If it was indeed staged, he’d reckoned, then a miraculous recovery on his end would ruin everything. If it wasn't, then chances were they'd still end up spending time together. Going by the comments floating around the dorm, anyway. So, he'd stuck to the plan and waited nervously for the lads to return.

It had taken more than an hour for Neil and Paul to resurface. By then, one of the doctors had been by to check on John, who had put on the performance of a lifetime and somehow managed to get diagnosed with some sort of stomach bug he definitely didn't have, but which meant getting a few days off regardless. More than anything, John had wanted to know everything that had gone on, but they weren't alone and they were still supposed to have a barney, so he couldn't just talk to Paul without raising suspicion. By the time everyone else left, the patient, who’d come back with a bandaged foot, had been fast asleep. He’d stayed like that for hours, much to John’s discontent.

He'd entertained himself by studying Paul for a while. There were worse things to look at, that much was sure. But as much as he enjoyed taking in every last detail, it did get tedious after an hour or so, especially when he rolled onto his side so John was left to stare at his back. Not that his backside wasn't interesting... He just preferred the front, preferably awake. Once John was well and truly bored, he'd settled down for a kip too. After that, he unearthed a book and read for a bit until lunch was being brought by.

He'd received some sort of watery porridge which made the butties and fruit on Paul's tray look like the poshest food in the world, but he couldn't bring himself to steal it. After all; he still hadn't a clue whether or not the lad snoring the day away in the bunk next to his was actually injured or not. Paul didn't strike John as a very good actor but he’d leant very heavily on Neil when they came back, so either he was faking it very well or he actually did hurt his ankle. Just to be on the safe side, John had decided against confiscating the better food and listlessly eaten his porridge, wondering why he hadn't just faked an illness that would've allowed him to eat normally.

It had just gone a quarter past one when Paul showed signs of life. First, he made some inarticulate noises, next came the stretching of muscles and the obligatory yawn. John had seen it so many times before, he could predict exactly what would happen next. Sure enough, after lazily rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Paul stretched another time and glance around, a smile big enough to eclipse the sun appearing on his face when his gaze landed on John.

“Hey,” he croaked, stifling a yawn. “Alright?”

“Am now,” John scoffed. “Been bored all morning, haven't I? You alright, then?”

“Sure. Fine.” He raised an eyebrow at John’s sceptical frown and then dissolved into a mischievous grin. “It's just twisted, John. They're not going to chop it just yet, you know. It's fine, really.”

“Alright, let's see you walking, then.”

“John, honestly.”

“Well?”

“Fine,” Paul huffed, pushing himself off the bed to humour John. “See? Nothing wrong with it.”

“Nothing wrong my arse,” John grumbled. “Yer limping.”

“Am not!”

John looked again, but he was sure of it. Maybe Paul was trying to walk normally, but he could clearly see there was something off. “Like fuck yer not. Yer practically hopping, mate. A blind man can see that, and I should know.”

“You’re hopping, John,” Paul chuckled, stopping briefly by John's bed to give him a far too fast and much too brief peck on the lips before returning to his own cot. “Hopping daft, that is.”

“I'd like to hop something,” John muttered under his breath, failing to ignore the reaction in his lower abdomen at the sight of Paul bending over his bed to fix the pillow and the sheets he’d ruffled up during his slumbers. “Might want to reconsider sticking yer arse out like that, son. There are queers lurking about these parts.”

“Do they really? Met any of them then, have you?” The smile Paul flashed him was nothing short of a challenge, and John was happy to accept. No sooner had Paul laid himself down, or he was next to him, wriggling and pushing until at long last, Paul moved aside far enough for John to lie down next to him. Of course, he would've fallen right off the edge if he hadn't held on, but that was hardly an issue. Not for him, anyway. Paul seemed mildly amused by the whole exercise. “Happy now?”

“Er. Happier. Could think of a few improvements,” he chuckled.

“Drop us a line, and we’ll get back to you,” Paul grinned, quickly grabbing John’s arm when he accidentally slackened his grip on Paul’s waist and nearly crashed to the floor as a result. “Assuming you don't plummet to your death first, that is.”

“I better make sure not to then,” John chuckled, settling in a bit better. It felt a bit awkward still, but he found he was very rapidly getting used to snuggling up to Paul. “This alright, Macca? Just say so if it's too much, right?”

“No, it's fine, actually.”

“You sure? I got the impression you had a hard time with it last night.”

“I've had time to think,” Paul muttered. “I won't pretend to understand it all, but I don't think this is going away, so I might as well deal with it. What's the use in worrying, you know?”

John considered it for a moment. Paul and not worrying; that was a concept. Was there ever a time he didn't think six steps ahead? To John, it sounded more like the old coping mechanism taking over. “You don't have to ignore your feelings, Paul. It's okay to not be okay.”

“I know that, but I am okay.” He drew a deep breath as if he was preparing himself for a rant, but when he spoke again, his voice sounded contemplating. “It's all just very new, you know? Like this. Cuddling. It feels nice, I like it, but it takes a bit of getting used to.”

“We've cuddled before, though.”

“Yeah, as mates. And I’m sure you recall how awkward that was. For me, anyway.” He furrowed his brow and chewed his bottom lip for a second or two. John could just about see the cogs moving inside of Paul’s head, and he wondered what he'd come up with. “But it's different now, isn't it? This isn't a cuddle between mates, but something more. I'm not sure what to call it yet, just that it's… Something different.”

“Why can't it be both?”

“You got me. I guess it is both,” Paul nodded, the serious expression slowly falling from his features.

“Yer okay with it, though, aren't you? Because if you're not…” John didn't finish the thought. Mainly because he didn't want to. He'd spent some time thinking about it all too, and as far as he was concerned, it was easy. No matter who had an issue with this, he wouldn't care as long as he and Paul were in it together. Deep down, John was very much aware that he wasn't nearly as cavalier about it as he wanted himself to believe, but he'd figure that out. Or he wouldn't. Either way, he knew what he wanted. He just desperately hoped Paul felt that way too. “Macca?”

“Yeah, I’m okay with it, John. I already said that, didn't I? I don't know if I like what I am, but I do know I like you.” The look in his eyes when he turned his head made John's stomach do funny things. Had anyone ever looked at him like that? Maybe Cyn had, once upon a long ago, but even if she had, it didn't quite have the same effect. And nothing could compare to what happened to his brain when Paul pulled their heads towards each other until their lips met. It was so different, kissing a man. There was a hint of a struggle for dominance there which girls generally didn't do.

Hours earlier, John had allowed Paul to dominate the kiss. This time, John took over, and this time it was Paul who was the first to let out a soft groan when the heat rose between them. Something in the back of John's mind made a connection that their way of kissing reflected their personalities. Paul’s had been romantic and polite, but with a hint of something breathtakingly passionate just below the surface, waiting to come out. John’s had probably started out a lot more shy than he wanted it to be, but once he felt secure, he quickly dialled it up into a hot, demanding kiss. If he could, he'd really pull out all the stops and make it the filthiest snog he ever gave anyone. Before he could, Paul took over and slowed it down until the finally broke apart.

What a sight it was, to see Paul that flushed, sweat breaking out all across his skin, and his nostrils flaring as he tried to even out his breathing. John supposed he had to be looking rather similar. He felt dishevelled anyway but in the best possible way. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, and the Paul deadpanned, “I kind of like doing that, too.”

John glanced pointedly at Paul’s groyne, which was in the same kind of state his was: somewhat larger than a few minutes before. “You don't say.”

“Oo-er! Where'd that come from?” John could hear the suppressed giggle in Paul’s voice as he tried to look and sound innocent. “It's never done that before, I swear.”

“I think you meant: it's never done that before in the past twelve hours, son,” John cackled, vividly remembering a similar predicament after that kiss in the middle of the night. Feeling bold, he placed his hand on Paul’s thigh and gradually moved up. “How about if I took care of that, then? Is that something you'd like?”

“I think I would, Johnny,” Paul murmured as he covered John’s hand with his own and gently moved it to a safer spot. “But let's take it one step at a time, yeah? There's no rush.”

John supposed he had a point. There was plenty of time left to explore, and at least it wasn't an outright ‘no’. He enjoyed a challenge. He supposed getting inside of Paul's pants before the others came back would be a fun goal to pursue. For now, he supposed a change of topic was in order. He’d clearly pushed Paul as far as he was going to go for now. John didn't want to fuck it up, so he moved into a more neutral position and allowed a pleasant silence to fall around them for a little while whilst he lazily snuggled Paul’s neck.

“You could have given me a clue, you know."

“About what?”

“What do you reckon?” John gently admonished the lad whose body was trapped half underneath him. He gestured vaguely at the wrapped up limb. "That you had this hoax all planned out. Then I wouldn't have had to spend all this time worrying."

Well, that certainly wiped the contented smile from Paul's face. "You didn't think anything serious happened, did you?"

"Of course, I did," John scowled. "The lads made it sound like you all but broke yer neck. So, why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I never planned this," he shrugged. "I did actually trip, you know. Over that ruddy floorboard near the door. It sort of cocked up my original idea."

"Which was?"

"Oh, I don't know really. I guess I was going to do the fatigue thing. You know, be a bit slow, bump into stuff, pretend to be half asleep during roll call...."

"...in other words, act naturally," John interrupted, grinning until a pointy elbow hit him painfully in the ribs. "Oh, come on. You can't deny you've been walking around in a daze for days, and nobody's sent you to the ward for it yet, so why would they now?"

"It could happen, you know. The Badge has excused people for that kind of thing before. Me included, remember? But yeah, it does seem like a bit of a naff idea looking back on it," he grinned. "Crashing down those steps was much more effective in achieving the goal."

"Yeah, just great, Paul. Apart from the fact that you fucking hurt yerself."

"Not as badly as they think, though," Paul said placatingly, using that 'there there, now now' kind of tone he'd get whenever he sensed John was getting annoyed. "Or you, for that matter. It really looks a lot worse than it feels, so I didn't even have to do much acting. They sort of assumed it was serious. It was almost funny, really."

His curiosity piqued, John raised his head to gauge if Paul was being honest. He certainly didn't look as if he was lying. There was a cheeky glimmer in his eyes, and the way the right corner of his mouth curled up betrayed his scarcely hidden amusement. Usually, when he was making shit up, he looked much more serious. Still, this was Paul, so John wasn't convinced yet. “Oh yeah? How do you reckon that?"

"Well, you know. They'd go, 'this might hurt' when they examined it, so all I had to do was confirm it." He chuckled a bit. "Do you have any idea how many ways you can pretend to be in pain? I may have exaggerated a bit because they told me to stay off it for at least a week."

"Do you mean it? No more of this 'I'm fine' bollocks when you're not fine, okay?"

"Yes, John, I really mean it. I promise."

"Good."

Satisfied by what he'd heard, John settled back into his new favourite spot, thinking he could easily get addicted to this. At first, he'd fumbled with his hands a bit, the lack of curves leaving him with little to hold onto, but now that he’d found a comfortable position, it occurred to him that their bodies fit quite well together. Not to mention it was great to be able to lie on someone's chest without them complaining about the weight. Paul seemed to like it too. He’d curled his arm around John so that he could run his hands through his hair - John supposed Paul had a thing for it - and every now and again, especially when John cuddled a bit closer or kissed his neck, he'd hum happily.

John reckoned he'd have to find a way to get a few more days off. He wasn't sure if Paul would be expected to keep his foot elevated for the entire week or if he'd be expected to attend the classes that didn't involve any physical activity. Either way, he’d be at the dorm at least half the time, so it'd be good if they could both be ‘sick’. Pretending to be nauseous wasn't too difficult; he’d done it before and he could do it again. But the last thing John wanted was for the doctors to think there was something serious going on. He’d already had to use all of his charms to keep from being taken to the ward as it was. Going through tests and being forced into a hospital bed, for a non-existent ailment no less, was the last thing John wanted.

"What are you thinking?" The simple question brought John right back into the moment.

“Was thinking how nice this is,” he replied, squeezing Paul’s side to indicate what he meant by ‘this’. “And that I need to find a way to get reported sick a bit longer now that you’ll be flat on yer back for a week.”

“Oh, I doubt that's how I’ll be spending my days, John,” Paul said with a wink. Bloody tease.

“You will if I get a say in it,” John shot back instantly, wiggling his eyebrows in the most suggestive manner he could muster. It had to look ridiculous be use Paul laughed so hard, it made him snort. John loved that silly laugh. He pushed himself up and stole a soft, chaste kiss. “Glad to hear you laughing again. I half thought you'd forgotten how.”

“I don't know what to say to that.”

“And yet,” John grinned, “you said something.”

“Well yeah. It's me, John. You know how hard it is to shut me up.”

“Could've fooled me. You were bloody quiet all morning, being comatose and all. I was bored out of my skull. Yer pretty, mate, but there's only so much time a bloke can spend looking at you before it gets old." Again, John tried his best to convey some lurid subtext just in case his words hadn't been obvious enough, and again, Paul’s face cracked into a beaming smile. “Anyway, I’m just glad yer back to normal. Well. Your kind of normal.”

“Blimey, John, cheers for that mate,” Paul chuckled. “That makes one of us though, doesn't it? What's up with you?”

John had an idea where this was going, but he decided to play dumb. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do, John. You've been looking forward to these field exercises for ages," Paul started, confirming John's suspicions. "I don't know how many of times you've gone on about using actual bullets and grenades and getting to play out a proper battle simulation. And here you are, skiving off. And don't say it's because of us because you were already pretending to be sick before you even knew whether or not I'd be staying here as well. So, what's up with that?"

"I don't really know. Maybe you're rubbing off on me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sighing, John resigned to the fact that he was going to be interrogated until he'd given a satisfactory answer. "Well, maybe I'm starting to see things differently than how I saw it a year ago, or even before the summer holiday."

"How did you see it, then?" Paul's voice didn't sound as demanding anymore. "You never told me. You listened to my rant, but you never gave me your side of the story."

"I don't even know if it applies anymore."

"Tell me anyway," he encouraged.

“Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you,” John finally said. “I’ve never done well at school. Couldn't be bothered, right? Got kicked out more times than I can count and I was well on my way to getting expelled from art college too. Next stop would've been the docks or the gutter. Well, that, or the military. I reckoned it paid better than lifting things with the other failures of society. A lot more respectable, too. Got some leaflets, and started fancying the idea. Mimi wouldn't hear of it. She wanted me to finish art college, she felt this whole army thing was for people of a different sort."

“My sort," Paul chuckled.

“Well yeah, I guess. It didn't help that my dad was in the merchant navy, either."

"I didn't know that."

John shrugged. "How could you, I never told you. He buggered off when I was little. I don't even know if he's alive or dead. Don't care, either. Anyway, I got hooked on the idea of joining, but I didn't want to do what the old man did so I decided on the army. The RAF wouldn't have me anyway, not with my eyesight."

Paul nodded, then pressed on a bit. "So, it became less about the money, and more about doing something you fancied?”

"Yeah. It seemed like an honourable thing, to defend your country, n'dat. I always fancied myself doing something like this, even before I failed at the school thing. I could see myself as one of those heroes, right? If a war was to break out, I'd be one of the people defending the nation, warding off the enemy. That's not a bad thing to aspire to, I think.”

“No, it isn't,” Paul said, pensive. "My point of view must have sounded really alien to you, then."

"Not half," John grinned, remembering only too vividly how much disdain he'd felt for the miserable sod who'd looked so utterly unhappy to be at the barracks. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that the kid he instantly hated would end up his best mate, and now his lover. But what surprised John most of all was that just by being himself, Paul had gradually influenced the way John felt about being an Army man. Perhaps it really wasn't everything he'd convinced himself it would be.

Still, some of the old image, however romanticised, was still there, and it was clear that Paul was willing to listen with a somewhat open mind. John recalled some of the stuff from Paul's monologue and decided to use the opportunity to address it. "That whole thing about us all being the same, I get that, but I think yer seeing it wrong. It's not about taking away our identity at all, it's about taking down the barriers that divide people. When everyone wears the same uniform and follows the same regime, it doesn't matter if yer rich or poor, you become equals. You know, out there, how many doctors or judges or solicitors do you know who weren't born with a silver spoon in their mouths? But in here, it's different. Anyone can become an officer because we start out as equals."

Paul hummed in a sort of non-committal way and then muttered, "In theory."

"What do you mean?"

"How many officers do you know that came from poor families? It's mostly the privileged ones making it up the ranks, isn't it? Can you name one who doesn't come from a posh family?"

"Sure," John said, glad to be able to prove his point, "the Badge."

Paul guffawed loudly. “As if. Have you heard him talk?"

"Yeah, but his family is working class,” John insisted. He couldn't recall where he heard it or when, but he was dead sure of it. “That's what I've heard, anyway."

"Alright, maybe you're right."

"I am," John proclaimed. "But I mean it, you know. How can any armed force form a united front when egos get in the way? Imagine what would happen if you could tell a soldier's background just by looking at him. I think we can both guess who gets it first, and it wouldn't be the posh ones. That's the good bit, you see. It doesn't matter who you are, you all get the same chances."

"Yeah,” Paul said sarcastically, “the same chance at getting killed."

That was a good point, and John knew it. It had been a strong argument before, and it still was. Even though he'd often dreamt of a glorious military career, the idea of dying hadn't ever entered his dreams as a distinct possibility. In his mind, he'd always come out of it victorious, a hero people would respect and admire. The idea of being shot and dying a painful death on some bloody battlefield hadn't really occurred to him, even though he knew deep down it was more likely than becoming a celebrated general. Still, he could just as easily turn Paul's argument into something less defeatist. "How about the chance to keep others from being killed?"

“Like who?"

"Innocent people," he said, stating what was obvious to him. "How do you think the war would have ended if nobody had stood up for those people the Nazis tried to kill? There's nothing wrong with wanting to fight an enemy, Paul. Just look at what happened here in England. You've seen the ruins back home. You know everyone in Liverpool lost a relative in those bombings or knows someone who did. And we got off easy! I don't get how you can even imply the world would've been better off if we hadn't fought the Gerries."

The irritation must have been audible because Paul seemed a bit taken aback. "Wind yer neck in, mate. I never implied-..."

"But you did. You're basically against the idea of having an army.” Below him, John could feel Paul was tensing up. He hadn't meant to get all excited to the point of practically shouting, and he certainly didn't want Paul to draw up that blasted wall again, so John calmed himself down a bit, continuing at a more measured tone. “Alright, so let's say we disband the armed forces. Then what? The baddies would have free rein."

"Maybe they would," Paul sighed, relaxing slightly, "but where do you draw the line? How do you decide which side to be on? It's easy when you're being invaded, you know, or when it's so obvious like it was when we were born. But what when it's not as black and white? What if England sides with the bad guys? You've got no choice then, do you? If your number is up, you have to take up arms, even when you know you're on the wrong side."

"I know, and that's what got me thinking. As much as I support the idea, it's not so obvious anymore. I don't want to end up killing the good guys. And the more I think about it, the more I realise I don't really think I could kill anyone, not even when they're definitely on the wrong side. I don't think I want to make this my career anymore. It's just that I don't see what other options I have."

To his surprise, Paul craned his neck and pecked him on the lips before quietly muttering, "there are always options, John."

He allowed himself to be pulled closer and murmured into Paul's neck, "easy for you to say. You passed your A-levels, so you can get a job anywhere. There are twenty thousand people looking for work in Liverpool alone. Why would they employ me, when they can get blokes like you?"

"I only passed one," he grinned, "and I have no intention of teaching English Lit to a bunch of uninterested kids, so we're in the same boat."

"Bollocks. They'd be hanging on yer every word. They'd be mad not to, right?” John sighed deeply. Life had been so much easier before when he knew what he wanted. “Time will tell, won't it. Either I'll stay or I won't. No other options, right? You got me thinking, is all.”

John didn't get a response to that last bit and he didn't need one. He had said all he wanted to say, and it seemed Paul had heard what he needed to hear. For a few moments, they just held each other. John supposed Paul was just as much lost in thought as he was. Eventually, he did speak up again.

"I'm glad you told me this, you know."

"You are?"

“Yeah, sure. We don't have to see eye to eye on everything, right?"

"I suppose not," he agreed. He kissed Paul's neck, drawing a sound from him that sounded a bit like a purr. "As long as we agree on some things, right?"

Apparently, there was something they could agree on quite well, and they didn't need any words to describe it, either.

 

**-*-**

 

**Paul**

 

A switch had been flicked. There was no other way to put into words the radical change in the way Paul felt. Keeping his feelings to himself seemed to have served as a dam somehow and now that the word was out, so we're his emotions. It was ridiculous, the way he behaved: like some kind of love struck teenager. John wasn't doing any better, mind. Paul realised they really had to stop giving each other those flirtatious looks, and they most definitely would have to stop kissing and touching all the time or the secret wouldn't be hidden more than a few minutes. If they were going to fool people into believing there wasn't anything going on, he and John would have to practice behaving normally. They'd done it before, so it shouldn't be too difficult. Right?

The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Paul had suggested getting their guitars out. It was something that would require their attention, especially John’s since he’d clearly stopped practising after their last lesson, nearly a month earlier. There was just one slight oversight on Paul’s behalf: his teaching method. From day one, he'd physically moved John's fingers ‘round the frets when h couldn't get the chords right. At first, this had earned him a ‘what the fuck?’-frown from John. Before long, it was clear John had accepted it was ‘Paul in control-freak mode’. Recently, Paul had caught himself hoping John would mess up his chords so he’d have an excuse but now, he realised John had taken it straight into ‘how often can I make him touch me’-territory. Quite a few times, actually, as it turned out. They'd been at it for the better part of an hour when Paul noticed John was flubbing some of the simple chords on purpose. It wasn't that he minded, not at all, but how were they ever going to make it work if they couldn't even do one guitar lesson without acting suspiciously?

Trying to write a song was even worse. First of all, because songs were nearly always about love. Second, because Paul was sat across from a real wordsmith who could literally turn anything into an innuendo and didn't hesitate to demonstrate this ability. So, rather than get anything even remotely worth keeping on paper, they alternated between making up cheesy puns, giggling like a pair of school girls, and gazing at each other. Well that, and snogging. If there was one thing painfully obvious to Paul, it was that they'd both been taken over by that stage of being in love where only one thing mattered: the person you fancied. Had he known talking about their feelings and confessing some of the more explicit thoughts - which they had after John explained how he felt about the army - would have this effect on them, Paul might have tried to keep it all inside. Then again… It felt so good to be all giddy inside, who'd want to miss out on that? And, he told himself, they still had a full day ahead of them to get the worst of the butterflies out of the way.

Little by little, the day progressed. Well actually, it went quite fast. Three weeks worth of sleep deprivation had caused Paul to nod off by the end of the afternoon. He hadn't slept very long, perhaps an hour, but when he awoke, food had been delivered. Apparently, Richie had resumed his role as their group’s personal waiter. John’s dinner looked terribly unappetising and clearly meant to soothe his ‘upset stomach’. Paul, on the other hand, had been given what looked like an extra large portion of spaghetti. He didn't usually choose the pasta because Chef Epstein’s recipe contained just a tad more garlic than Paul preferred. He knew John usually had it, though, so he didn't mind missing out on bangers and mash with peas and carrots if it meant wiping that - somewhat hilarious - look of disappointment from John's face by sharing his meal. The clear broth, which smelt like it was supposed to be chicken and vegetables served as an acceptable substitute for soup, so with the slice of blackberry-apple crumble for dessert, they managed to each have a three-course-dinner.

It wasn't long after finishing the last plate that they unanimously decided on an early shower. Paul soon found out that, too, was something that easily could be their downfall if they didn't learn to behave like adults. This became very clear after a pitiful five minutes of grooming like normal people...

"Ah, bugger!"

Paul raised an eyebrow at the heartfelt groan. "What?"

"Forgot my bloody shampoo," John scowled. "Be a lad and lend us yours, yeah?"

"No." Loving the fact that he had something John needed, Paul poured a bit more of the debated product into his palm and proceeded to wash his hair, the bottle perched on the narrow ledge of one of the small windows, safely out of John’s reach.

"Come on, Paul," John pleaded, "I only need a little."

He grinned at the look on John's face, but he was adamant. Stepping back under the water to rinse off, Paul squinted around the suds running down his face. John was still pouting. "Go get your own. I've nearly run out anyway."

"Some boyfriend yer turning out to be. Bloody useless, you are."

Paul placed a hand on his cheek in feigned horror, trying very hard to sound offended even though he was on the verge of falling about laughing. "Oh I am, am I? See if I'll let you have it now." Sadly, John didn't fall for the act.

"I could just take it, you know," he threatened, closing in on Paul with his eyes fixed on the coveted product.

"Oh, could you? And how exactly were you going to do that?"

"Like this," John yelled as he tried to grab the bottle. Paul saw him coming, though, and he quickly snatched it up before John could. He held it high above his head, just out of John's reach.

"That's not fair," he giggled, tugging on Paul's arm. "How can any normal person compete with those freakish arms of yours?"

“I don't see any normal people here,” Paul laughed, quickly switching the bottle to his other hand, further away from John’s grabby paws, “do you?"

"Cheeky bastard! Give...me...that..... Whoa shit!"

In an attempt to compensate for the slight height difference and Paul’s longer limbs, John had more or less leapt at the shampoo and lost his balance in the process. A second later they both landed on the floor in a giggling pile of tangled arms and legs. With a victorious cry, John confiscated the bottle that got dropped in the crash. Paul didn't give up so easily, though. He quickly pushed John off him and without a second thought, he positioned himself on top of the would-be thief. He grabbed John's wrists and pinned them down over his head, holding both with one hand while prying the contested bottle out of his fingers with the other.

"I do believe that's mine, darling."

For a few moments, they stayed where they were, laughing and panting slightly from the sudden burst of activity until his nether regions made Paul acutely aware of the fact that both he and John were stark naked and all but lying on top of each other. Apparently, John had the same revelation, because he released his hands from the new slackened grip and pulled Paul down into a ravenous kiss, after which he brought up his hand and ran it excruciatingly slowly down Paul's spine. The sensation sent shivers through him, and by the time John reached the little dimple above his arse, he couldn't keep himself from stifling a low groan.

"You like that then, yeah?"

He hummed in acknowledgement before retaliating by latching onto a spot near the crook of John's neck, which he'd discovered earlier to be particularly sensitive. Careful not to leave a mark - at least not one that would be visible for days - he teased the skin until it was John's turn to moan.

"Two can play that game, Johnny boy," he murmured, to which John responded by arching up, increasing the friction between their bodies.

It was a bit more than Paul had bargained for. Had John been a bird, he'd have no qualms about going all the way so soon, but this was different. As much as his hormones reminded him of how bloody long it had been since he'd been with anyone, his mind stepped on the brakes. He definitely wanted to go there with John, he also knew he wanted to savour the journey to that moment by taking it one step at a time. He supposed he was just too much of a romantic - and too much still in the process of coming to terms with the situation - to just let it happen. Ignoring the part of him that wanted to throw everything overboard and just get on with it, Paul brought his face towards John's ear so that his lips just brushed the shell and he muttered hoarsely, "patience, John. Let's not fuck this up, alright?"

"Don't say fuck."

The two seconds he had to wait for John's response seemed like an eternity, but when Paul heard them, a weight fell off his shoulders. There wasn't a hint of annoyance in John's voice, so he felt more comfortable about teasing him a bit more.

"Why not, it's hardly the first time you heard me say that."

"Don't say hard, either," John protested, his voice somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

With the tension now completely broken, Paul felt a lot bolder and he grinned deviously as he slowly pushed himself off of John and stood up. "Alright, alright. Are you coming?"

"I will if you keep this up. Fucking hell, Macca, how many more of those do you know?"

"Enough to get a rise out of you." He laughed heartily when John rolled his eyes at the increasingly bad puns. "Anyway, I'm done here. I guess you'll need a few more minutes? You know to... finish?"

"I hate you."

"Hate you too, luv."

 

**-*-**

 

**John**

 

He watched in amusement as Paul sashayed out of the shower room and kept following him with his eyes until he and his well-shaped bottom disappeared around the corner. It was nice to be able to have that kind of banter again, John reckoned when he sat up, even if it left him somewhat... wound up. Part of him had wondered if they'd ever manage to get the level of comfort back that they used to share before all these feelings complicated their lives.

He was aware that Paul had wanted to spare his feelings by turning an awkward situation into something they could laugh about. As much as he had tried to hide it, John had seen the brief flash inner turmoil in his eyes when he took the teasing up a notch. It was the same doubt John had noticed several times that day. It was obvious they both wanted the same. John just wanted it as fast as he could get it, and Paul clearly had decided he wasn't going cut any corners. John was very much intent on trying to change that resolve but for now, he hadn't meant to do anything serious, either. Teasing was nice and thinking of the many ways they might please each other was very exciting but in truth, John doubted he'd have the confidence to actually have sex this early in the relationship.

It was a funny thing to find out about himself, that. He would have shagged any girl after that little time without giving it another thought, and he was convinced Paul would, too. But this, this was different. This felt more significant, somehow. Not because they were both lads, although that did make the whole thing a bit more fiddly. John supposed he’d have to do some research to find out exactly how it worked between blokes and if they'd need to do anything special for it. But that wasn't his main concern. No, he wanted to get it right this time. He'd always be able to get another bird to grow bored of after a while, but something told him he'd never find someone who understood him the way Paul did.

Deep down, even though they'd only been together for a day - and not even a full day at that - John knew he couldn't possibly get bored of Paul. He caught himself thinking that maybe, just possibly, the person he'd want to spend the rest of his days with was a man, more specifically the one who just left the room. It was a rather overwhelming idea. It didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd consider at all, and even if it was... Was it even possible to know those things after so little time? Granted, his friendship with Paul had already outlasted most of his relationships, but still… Paul had, after a few thwarted attempts, finally allowed John to touch him through his underwear and returned the favour, but that was the furthest either of them had gone so far. Neither had even got the other off yet, so how could he know they were meant to be together if they hadn't even really done anything yet? After all, wasn't love more than just holding hands?

John sighed and raked his fingers through the dripping mess hanging from his head, realising he still hasn't washed it. He slowly began to get to his feet, thinking he might as well just use his bar of soap for the task even if that did make his hair frizzy when his eye fell on something: Paul had left his shampoo behind. The bottle had a crack in it, he noticed. John deduced it must have happened when he jumped for it and knocked them both to the floor. A small puddle of the liquid was forming around the bottle but as he picked it up, he could see there was a tiny bit left. Since it would be lost to Paul either way, John decided to help himself to the last dollop whilst making a mental note to get a new bottle of the stuff. Perhaps they could share it. He liked the scent of this brand a lot better than the Old Spice he'd been using anyway.

Smiling contently, John stepped back under the still running shower. The water had gone a bit cold, but it didn't bother him. In fact, if anything, it helped solve one of his main problems…

 

**-*-**

 

The first thing John noticed as he woke the next morning, was a soft thumping sound right below his ear. As his brain began to work, it occurred to him they must have moved around quite a bit during the night because he was now lying half on top of Paul. As drowsy as he still felt, John was absolutely certain that's not how they fell asleep. Neither had even questioned whether they'd sleep apart or together. Since it was the only chance they'd get in a long time, both wanted to use every minute available to them to strengthen their bond. So, John had clambered into Paul’s bed again without even asking, and he’d quickly drifted off with the comfortable weight of Paul’s arm around him. It was another first: nobody had ever spooned him before; he’d always been the one doing the spooning. But now, his head was on Paul's chest, and the slow and steady beat of his heart was the first thing he registered. Not for long, though. The gentle rhythm lulled John right back to sleep before he got the chance to wake up properly.

John didn't know how long he'd dozed, but the sensation of an arm being extracted from underneath his body roused him enough to become aware of what was going on. He could get a better idea of his position, now. He could feel Paul's chin against his hairline, and the left side of his torso seemed to be draped across the body below him, with his left hand dangling limply over the side of the bed and his right sandwiched between their stomachs. Even their legs seemed to be slightly tangled. All in all, it seemed, he had Paul pinned down quite thoroughly, and given the bits that were touching, he was probably quite uncomfortably crushing him. He was, however, too drowsy to move so much as a finger.

Just seconds after Paul pulled out his arm from the trap that was John's weight, his hand softly landed in the same spot it had when John had his nightmare. Slowly, he started to do that strangely soothing thing again, that drawing random shapes on the back of his head. It almost felt like writing but if it was, he couldn't make out what the words were supposed to be. The feeling he got from it, though, made him feel very warm and happy. A contented sigh escaped him as he relaxed into that hypnotising sensation of Paul's fingertips languidly moving over the part of his head where his hair was the shortest.

He could've stayed like that for hours. Now that he'd given up on trying to deny his feelings for Paul, it didn't feel so strange at all. Of course, the butterflies helped a lot in feeling good about it. In the past day, they had completely taken over and turned him into a giggling fool, much like some of his previous infatuations had, only more so. It was pretty much the same as any relationship, really. Well, except of course for the few obvious differences, which he was getting used to faster than he'd imagined possible. Apparently, he wasn't the only one. Something about it just felt right. It was a thought that kept returning and to John, that meant it had to be true. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it occurred to him that the revelation he had the previous evening, might not be so far-fetched at all. Perhaps this really was something that could last a very, very long time. Some people just knew right away, right?

"Hey, don't stop," John grumbled when Paul's hand stilled. Judging by the way his breathing had got slower, John guessed he had either gone back to sleep or was about to. Moments later, he heard Paul's voice again. Or rather, he felt it. It reminded him a bit of when he'd put his ear to Timmy's ribs. He'd be able to hear him purr, and feel it resonating, even though the sound he produced wasn't loud at all. It wasn't much different now. Paul's voice was quiet, and a bit gruff due to being barely awake, yet he could feel it reverberating.

"Hey," he yawned. "What time is it?"

John pushed himself up a bit, so his head ended up level with Paul's, rather than resting on his chest. "No idea," he mumbled. "Half seven, maybe? We've got the day off; who cares about the time?" To emphasise his intentions, he claimed Paul's lips. As if it had a mind of its own, John’s hand trailed down Paul’s stomach. This time when he reached the waistband of his pants, John pushed his fingers underneath rather than over, delighted by the way Paul moaned and moved his hips ever so slightly towards the touch the moment John’s hand touched his flesh.

It was strange, to take someone that wasn't himself in hand. John liked it. No, he more than liked it. And he loved it even more when a moment later, a hand that wasn't his own dipped into his underwear. It was going to be tricky, what with their wrists touching and all. If they were going to do this - and John was definitely going to do it - they'd have to synchronise their strokes which could be interesting. The thought was quickly banished from John's mind when he felt Paul's fingers briefly curling around him. He supposed that noise had to come from him because Paul was already making a different sound. Things were actually becoming a bit heated when something seemed to click in Paul's brain. John could sense it even before their kiss was broken and - far worse - Paul pulled back his hand. "Half seven? Christ, John, we can't be doing this now. You need to get into your own bed before anyone comes in and catches us."

"Somebody already has...."

John's head snapped up and he just caught a glimpse of how Paul's eyes flew open before he jolted into a sitting position. It happened too fast to do anything about it, other than yelp as John went flying and painfully landed on the floor. For a moment, he was too shocked to do or think anything. John's heart pummelled wildly against his ribs as it dawned on him. One day. They managed to keep it a secret for one ruddy day. What the hell was going to happen now?

 

**-*-**

 

**Ringo**

 

When he got up that morning, he’d had a fairly good idea of what the day would bring. Work would be slow, what with so many of the boys away on that battle practice exercise. He might get one or two officers in his shop, but that would likely be it, so Richard reckoned he may as well find something useful to do to occupy the time and bring his mates their breakfast trays. It had been a great relief to find them peacefully coexisting the night before. Of course, Paul had been asleep, but he’d been in his own bed and not in Neil’s. Given the way things had been recently, and the worried expression on Neil’s face when he’d dropped by to leave a note for Paul and asked Ringo to deliver it, it wouldn’t have been surprising at all to see those two as far removed from each other as possible. But, Paul had looked a bit better and John had been remarkably calm and pleasant, so Richard half assumed they’d worked things out. And about bloody time, too!

The night before, he’d charmed Chef Epstein into piling a bit more than usual onto Paul’s plate, and then he’d all but got kicked out of the kitchen when he asked for extra dessert as well. He’d been a bit more careful when collecting the lads’ breakfast, though he’d snagged two extra bananas when nobody was looking. They were bordering on overripe anyway, going by the many brown spots, so Richard reasoned nobody else would probably want them. It’d been bloody difficult to get both trays into the dorm without dropping anything but he’d made it work somehow, though he’d left them on Neil’s foot locker. His plan had been to see if the peace had indeed been restored and only if it had, would he allow his mates to eat. It sounded great in theory. When he walked into the long space, Ringo told himself that whatever protest John and Paul might give, he could counter it. He was ready for their worst. What he was not prepared for, however, was to find his two dear friends together in one bed, kissing each other passionately whilst their hands went all kinds of places no man would normally want to touch another bloke.

His first instinct was to turn around and leg it. Pretend he didn’t see, act as if he didn’t know, and hope it’d go away. Somehow, Richard doubted he could ever scrub the memory from his mind, but he could try. The last thing he wished to remember was the sight of John touching Paul ‘there’, much less the way Paul had responded to it. Richard had heard the kid singing and he knew the extraordinary things he could do with his voice but that was one sound he’d never wished to hear. The same went for the noises John made when Paul’s hand moved somewhere altogether too private. Richard truly didn’t want to witness it but his legs wouldn’t move. In fact, he seemed to be completely paralysed; even his voice wouldn’t cooperate. Somebody spoke, though. The sound of it was so low, it took a few seconds to figure out it was Paul, who seemed worried about the time or something like that. Some of his words were muffled by John trying to shut him up by resuming that kiss but Ringo caught the tail of it.

“....before anyone comes in and catches us….”

Why his voice chose that exact moment to start working again, he would never know, but before he knew it, Ringo called out, “Somebody already has...”

Everything happened too fast, he didn’t even get a chance to say more than that. John’s head turned so quickly it had to hurt, and Paul sat up lightning fast, sending John flying in the process. Normally, it would have been a funny scene to see John flailing like a madman before crashing to the floor with a sickening thud. It sounded like he’d hit something rather harshly, because he was cursing in a way that would make a sailor blush whilst Paul just sat there, opening and closing his mouth, clearly searching for something to say, panic written across his face. Richard saw it all and on some level, he understood it, but by them his limbs were unfrozen and so he turned on his heels and stalked towards the exit, vaguely aware that someone was coming after him.

He’d nearly made it to the door when a strangled yell and another thump made him look around. Several yards behind him, Paul sat on the floor. Well, sat… It was more a sort of crumpled heap of Paul, really. Ringo saw him reaching for his ankle, which had been bandaged the night before but wasn’t now. It looked a bit bruised and it was clear it was bothering Paul. Had he tripped or something? Richard didn’t really know, but it hurt him to see his friend in pain. Before he could walk back to help, though, John showed up, scolding the patient for taking off the bandage, and for trying to walk on it, and for not being honest about how bad it was, and whatever else he had to say, half of which wasn’t really audible anyway. What struck Richard, though, was the contrast between John’s grumbled admonition and the gentleness of his actions. First, he helped Paul to his feet and back to bed, and then he proceeded to pick up a pressure bandage from atop a pile of clothes and, still scolding, wrapped up the injured limb. It wasn’t so much the fact that he did that, as it was the almost sensual way his hand ran up Paul’s calf when he lifted the affected leg onto the mattress. Most telling, perhaps, was the way that Paul of all people allowed himself to be fussed over like that.

It wasn’t until both lads tore their gazes away from each other and turned to look at him that Ringo realised he hadn’t left but in fact had got closer to them. Sometime in the few minutes he’d watched them interact, his repulsion had softened into confusion, and by the time two pairs of somewhat desperate-looking eyes got aimed at him, something in his head had begun to click. Couldn’t he have seen it coming? They were just much closer than any two mates he had ever known, and there had been a certain tension between them for... how long? He'd sensed something that day at the ward, back in January. A connection, a deeper understanding. He just hadn't known what it was, or what it could become. Why hadn’t he seen it? If anyone should have noticed, shouldn’t it have been him?

Richard had a cousin nobody ever talked about, but whom everyone knew to be different. The few times he'd met the bloke, he seemed alright, and not barmy or sick at all. It had definitely contributed to him being more open to the idea than most people he knew. It wasn't something he'd want for himself, but he wasn't diametrically opposed to or appalled by it, either. Nor did he buy into the idea that queer men were disgusting monsters who belonged behind locked doors. His cousin was a friendly, helpful bloke as far as he could see. They’d shared some laughs, spent some time talking about shared interests, and basically got along well. Ringo had enjoyed getting to know him; he didn’t fit his idea of a criminal at all even if, technically, he was. And he definitely knew his friends were just two normal lads, too. Well, maybe not normal. John and Paul were many things, but few people would ever call them normal. They’d always been a special breed. They’d been fairly normal in their weirdness, though, and that probably hadn’t changed even if them fancying each other was anything but normal.

Sighing, Richard resigned to the fact that, despite not being the biggest fan of queer relationships, he was willing to hear what it was all about. Feeling like a man on his way to the gallows, he sat down on John’s bed, which didn’t look like it had been used at all, and clasped his hands in his lap. “Alright, lads, I’m willing to listen, so you better start explaining what this is all about.”

So much for not wanting to know...


	21. Help!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay.....
> 
> Where to begin?
> 
> So, life threw me some lemons. Big ones. Won't go into detail; too personal. Basically, my computer dying was just the start of it, but I'm slowly finding my feet again. About time, I'd say; it's been a year since this story was last updated! Must admit that during most of that time, I've not really thought about it at all. However, I've been getting random flashes lately. Brief scenes of chapters I've already published in the past (now lost) version of this monster fic. But also ideas for the improvement and/or continuation of it. As always, encouragement is very helpful. So, ifthose of you who've followed me over the years could spare some kind word, I'd be made up about that! If you can't, and prefer to wait out the dry spell, that's perfectly fine. I know many people don't like posting comments. Anyway, the good news is that I've now got access to a computer again. I cannot make any definite promises other than I'll re-read what I've published so far, hoping that'll truly bring this AU story back to life. I hope you're still with me after all this time.
> 
> Oh, and did I tell you I'll be taking my second holiday to Liverpool this year? Last year was so much fun. I've really fallen in love with Liverpool. Being inside John and Paul's childhood homes was surreal, and I reckon it could really help this story along. When I return there in October, it'll be to celebrate my 40th birthday. With any luck, I'll be back yet again some 6 weeks later, to see Paul at the Echo Arena. Haven't got tickets yet, so please keep your fingers crossed I'll manage to beat the scalpers when the general sale begins on Monday the 16th!
> 
> Until soon..... I hope!

30 August 1961

John

He watched in mild amusement as Paul shaved. That part of the day was always a source of annoyance or hilarity, depending on who you asked and what mood they were in. For some reason, Paul always needed an eternity to groom. He'd run around doing who knew what before he was even ready to begin, and once he got to that point, he approached it with the type of speed and precision that made it seem like he was performing neurosurgery. It always took forever, and he didn't seem to have any plans to start doing it a little faster.

John had to admit, though: he did a thorough job of it and most of the time, he'd manage to make his jawline look as if he didn't have any facial hair at all. Considering the speed with which it grew and the colour and thickness of it, that was quite an accomplishment. Of course, he'd have a dark shadow all across his upper lip and cheeks halfway through the afternoon. John didn't mind; he felt Paul looked great either way.

"You do know you don't really have to shave today, right? Nobody's going to see the difference once that camouflage paint goes on, anyway."

"I know that," Paul replied, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his jaw which he was now working on, "but I'll come back looking like a caveman if I don't. Besides," he added, dropping his voice so no one else could hear, "I thought you preferred me shaved. You're always complaining about the stubble scratching your skin."

"I'm delicate," John joked, earning himself an amused chuckle.

His teasing comments had mostly been made to mess with Paul's head, of course. Which, he had to admit, was becoming more difficult by the day. But still, John couldn't deny having his preferences. As good as he looked unshaven, the hair was so thick and rigid, it turned the lower half of his face into sandpaper. Having much softer facial hair himself, and probably less of it too although his sideboards were vastly superior to Paul's, John hardly ever heard Paul complain about prickly stubble.

"It's only two days and one night, Macca. I think we can manage."

"Well, I'm nearly done now anyway," Paul muttered as he tilted his he tilted his head up to catch a spot he'd skipped. "If you wanted me to skip a day, you should've said it before I started, you know? Hand me the aftershave, will you?"

John picked up the designated bottle and handed it over, seizing the opportunity to brush his hand against Paul's. They'd been doing that a lot, lately. It wasn't easy finding ways to show affection in a dormitory with twenty-eight more lads without anyone seeing anything. For the most part, they'd have to settle for small, seemingly random gestures such as touching each other's hands when handing each other stuff. As a result, they'd developed a remarkable inability to reach things, 'needing' the other to 'help out' whenever they could get away with it.

They also seemed to pass each other in corridors more than before. Nobody seemed to have noticed there would always be a brush of hands, a shoulder bump, or some other innocuous form of brief physical contact whenever they passed. It was never enough, but it was largely all they had. If they got lucky, they might find themselves alone in a room, which meant being able to steal a quick kiss or two. A few times, they'd snuck out of the dorm or into the showers at night to get some of the frustration out of their systems although, after a very narrow escape when someone had walked right past them making out, they'd decided to stop risking it for a while. Those nightly expeditions always resulted in being knackered the next day, anyway.

Living in a place where the walls seemed to have eyes and ears, was utterly frustrating, John thought. He had known from the start it would be difficult, and he knew Paul knew too, because it had, after all, been one of the first things they had discussed. Still, even in his most negative predictions, it hadn't been as challenging as it was in reality. On the upside, they definitely had something to look forward to. They were due to camp out in the woods that night, meaning he and Paul would finally have some much-needed privacy, and John had a long list of ideas about how to put it to good use...

-*-

Paul

It wasn't even midday yet, and Paul had already been told off thrice for not paying attention. He'd stopped promising to do better after the second time; he knew it was useless anyway. The whole exercise didn't interest him in the slightest, so his mind kept wandering. This sniping practice was rather boring, Paul reckoned. Not that shooting at people would have been better, mind. But lying on his stomach in the shrubbery for much of the morning, shooting stationary targets out of the trees wasn't particularly thrilling, either. The only upside he could detect so far was that now he understood some of the exercises they had been made to do on the assault course. This stuff would've been murder on their muscles if those hadn't been properly hardened by now.

Still, despite the constant crawling, and crouching, the exercise was utterly tedious, and Paul was almost looking forward to some of the other things they were scheduled to do. Acting out a close quarters combat situation almost seemed fun, compared to the drag of their current activity, or lack thereof. It would involve fighting, of course. Not his favourite pastime by a league, but it would certainly be much less of a bore than this. Without meaning to, he started looking around at the scenery again.

He had always loved the outdoors, and birdwatching had been a favourite pastime when he was a kid. He'd already spotted some, though most of the animals seemed to have vanished the moment they began shooting. He couldn't blame them; he gladly would have done a runner as well. The plants and trees were nice to look at too, though. Especially now that autumn was fast approaching - earlier than usual due to the drought of the previous weeks - and the first leaves had started to change colour. Some of them were falling already, and those littered the forest floor, along with chestnuts, acorns, and even some hazelnuts. He even found clusters of edible toadstools - and tasted a few. They were quite good.

Paul reckoned that if all of this stuff would still be around the following month - when they were supposed to do their first survival exercise - there would be enough there to get by without even touching their ration packs. He absolutely hated rations. Half of it was too salty, the rest seemed to have no salt at all, most of it looked like it was made before the Great War, and the only thing that tasted good - the chocolate - was rarely included. So, if they could eat something else, that would have his preference. He'd tried to show John the stuff he discovered by pelting acorns at him. That had nearly earned him his fourth reprimand. Luckily, he managed to appear focused on the exercise just in time. Thank fuck for the ability to look as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. It'd saved his hide many times throughout his life... Of course, his mind had wandered again the moment that scrutinising stare had moved on. There was simply too much to see to stay focused on the targets he didn't feel like shooting at. And then, of course, there was one particular element of scenery, or rather 'scenery', that kept catching his eye.

John definitely played a big role in Paul's absentmindedness. Then again, he appeared to have a similar effect on John, who wasn't paying much attention to the task at hand, either. They were some twenty yards apart so they couldn't do much talking. Well, not with words, anyway. Then again, they regularly managed to have entire conversations without uttering a single syllable. It was enough to drive their friends mad at times. So, even though they couldn't express themselves audibly, Paul had a very good idea about what John was thinking. The few times they had come within touching distance had only confirmed those suspicions. Then again, so had John's sneak attack in the bathroom, that morning.

It wasn't like John had ever attempted to be subtle about his plans. Oh, he'd behaved perfectly appropriately when there were other people around. But, in the brief moments they were alone...? It was like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde; John's demeanour had changed as if a switch was flicked in his head. When Paul was just about done shaving, for instance, they'd had maybe five seconds of privacy, in which John managed to reach around and give Paul a teasing squeeze before heading out into the dormitory as if nothing happened. It caught him completely by surprise and caused him to nick his jaw - with a bloody safety razor of all things - which hadn't happened in years. Paul glanced at his watch. He'd have his revenge one way or another. A little over eight hours to go until they'd be away from prying eyes, and then he'd pay John back with equal currency... to begin with.

-*-

John

Five more hours, he reminded himself. Just five more hours and they'd be off duty. As far as John was concerned, he deserved a bloody medal for restraining himself as much as he had. There had been ample opportunity for him to cop a feel or steal a kiss in those bushes, but he'd behaved like a good soldier and kept his hands to himself... most of the time. Things were about to become a lot more physical, though.

He found his place in line and stood squad as the Badge, flanked by two officers whose names he kept forgetting - mainly because he couldn't be arsed to remember - addressed them. Due to his height and piercing eyes, the bloke had always had a bit of an intimidating presence, but now he made even more of an impression. Apparently, he was dead serious about the things he was telling them, so John decided to stop casting sideways glances at Paul, and pay attention. Sort of.

"In a minute, you will each remove the magazines from your weapons and deposit them in the box on the left-hand side of that table over there. You will then replace them with one from the box on the right-hand side, which contain blanks. Do not, I repeat, do not under any circumstance fire these at short range. Though the cartridges do not contain any bullets, you can still seriously injure, or even kill someone with them. I realise you already know this, and that you have been using them for a while now, but I cannot stress this enough."

A few lads sniggered softly, knowing exactly why these instructions were repeated. Some people seemed to need the reminder; one of the blokes from C-dorm had ended up with a broken foot because he'd accidentally shot himself using blanks. The poor lad was still getting bullied relentlessly about it. After a warning glance at the kid in question, the Badge carried on with his speech. "Additionally, you will take one of these knives. You are familiar with them as well, but it bears repeating. Although they are blunt, you can still seriously injure someone with them, so be careful. I don't want to see anyone get hurt, is that understood?"

"Yes, sergeant major," John droned along with the others.

"Very well. Now, this is a simulation so it will require some effort to get into character. Since you cannot get shot - assuming everyone respects the basic safety regulations..." another piercing glance at the clumsy bloke had John biting his lip to keep from laughing "...and there's no foolproof way of telling if and where your opponent would have hit you, you will need to use your imagination and common sense. If you do get taken out, you will remain where you are until the exercise is over. Pretending to be injured or dead may tempt you to make a scene of it, but you will refrain from doing so. I will expect you to take this seriously; no larking about!"

Why did those blue eyes suddenly look at John? Surely, he couldn't be the only one with a bit of a reputation. With the speech having come to a close, he joined the line and replaced his magazine. He and Paul had already established that they were good to go, but John nearly jumped out of his skin when someone standing nearby tested his cartridge and ended up driving a bullet into the ground, mere inches from their feet. Paul actually did jump and let out an altogether too girlish scream, which promptly had his ears turning red.

"Rice, are you insane? Did you even hear what I said? Do not fire at your comrades at that short a distance," the sarge bellowed. "Blanks can kill, and the live rounds you're firing certainly can. Have you listened to the instructions?"

"Yes, sergeant major," Eric Rice stammered, looking even more shocked than Paul did.

"Then why, pray tell, does your magazine not contain blanks?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Sir?" The unfortunate bloke from C-dorm, who had been queued right in front of Paul, spoke up. "I may have put my magazine in the wrong box."

If looks could kill, the lad they knew as Mark would've dropped dead on the spot. "May have? Owens, you are an idiot! Have you learnt nothing from shooting yourself? I don't know which one of you is thicker, but I do believe you both might benefit from watch duty. It should give you time to reflect on your stupidity," Warrant Officer Martin fumed. "One more error and I'll boot you out so fast, it'll make getting shot feel pleasant. Understood?"

"Yes, sergeant major," Mark and Eric replied.

"Lennon, McCartney, are you alright?"

"Yes, sergeant major," they chimed in unison, quickly scurrying away in case the Badge decided they'd been at fault too.

"Just barely, though," Paul muttered under his breath. "Fucking hell, I nearly shat myself! Can you imagine what would have happened if he had aimed any higher? He could have shot someone. He could have shot you!"

"Well, he didn't, did he? No need to get upset over something that didn't happen, Macca. Now get over there and try not to get fake shot. Going hand to hand sounds like... fun, wouldn't you say?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. As far as he could tell, it cheered Paul up a bit. Either that, or he was getting better at hiding his true feelings. Whichever it was, he was grinning when they took their places for the next activity.

John had to admit the whole reenactment thing was hilarious. Despite the Sarge's warnings, there was a whole lot of unnecessary screaming going on. Several blokes took their sweet time 'dying', even when nobody had even aimed at them, and more than once, 'dead' soldiers decided to get up and join the fight again. Half of the time, John was doubled over, trying to stop laughing. From what he could see of Paul, who was on the opposite team, he was having fun as well. The few moments their eyes met, there had been an amused twinkle in them. John was pretty sure Paul should have been sprawled on the ground somewhere, pretending to have been killed. He'd accidentally on purpose fired in his direction himself, and so had two others, as far as he could see. Still, there he was, running around like a madman.

The second half of the battle was even better. That's when it became clear just how bad they all were at acting. Dan and Dave seemed to be testing how long they could stagger around crying and wailing before one of the C.O.'s would reprimand them, which was surprisingly long. So long, even, that at least half of the group stopped what they were doing in order to watch the show whilst those who didn't, used to opportunity to run around and 'stab' people left, right, and centre. Oddly, that didn't result in any 'casualties'. If anything, it inspired some resurrections.

Eventually, they were told to either take it seriously or receive a written reprimand, after which most men tried to get and stay in character. Bodies were scattered all over the ground, some half on top of others and most of them fighting back fits of giggles, and the battle would be over soon when John and Paul finally came face to face, which didn't end well for John. He'd hardly been touched, mind, but he plummeted to the ground anyway, trying his hardest not to laugh as he pretended to be dying an excruciating death. Even through the war paint, which made his features difficult to read, John could see Paul was trying to remain composed as he crouched over him and drew his arm back for a mercy kill. Unfortunately, this exposed his entire left side.

A shot could be heard, and both John and Paul looked around to see it was Frank Stewart, one of their dorm mates and a member of John's team, who avenged his 'fallen' friend. Gasping dramatically, Paul dropped his knife and flopped down on top of John just as Frank arrived to admire his handiwork. "John, need a hand?"

"No man," he laughed, "I'm already a goner. Nice shot, though."

Frank curtsied rather hilariously, and then walked away, yelling, "You're very chatty for a dead man."

"It's a gift, what can I say," he shouted after him. With nobody but his 'assassin' to talk to, he decided to address a pressing matter. "Oi, Macca, move yer arse, the crown jewels are getting crushed, mate."

"Can't. I'm dead."

"Well, get undead or something. It hurts!"

"Oh, alright," he chuckled, moving down a bit so his thigh ended up where his knee had been. "Better?"

"Much," John grinned, equal parts amused and embarrassed. "Except there's another problem emerging now."

Paul seemed to find it very funny, judging by the way he was shaking with suppressed laughter. "I know. I can feel that, you know."

"So, how do you suppose I explain that?"

"Rigor mortis?"

"Cheeky."

When all he got in response was a rather saucy wink, John decided then and there to have his revenge. It took some effort, but he managed to manoeuvre himself into a different position without being too overt about it. At least, not to any unsuspecting onlooker. If anyone who knew about them was watching, they might catch on. And Paul definitely wouldn't be able to miss the subtle movement that had a... not so subtle effect on him.  
"Oh great, now I'm in the same boat. Thanks a lot, John," he groaned.

Utterly content, he rested his head on the trampled forest floor. "Misery loves company."

-*-

John

"Go on, live a little. It's not cold at all."

And it wasn't, not where John was floating, anyway. He turned around and swam towards the deeper water of the lake. The temperature did appear to drop a bit as he progressed, but he was hardly freezing. John paused a moment to look back. Treading water, he squinted in a bid to discern what Paul was doing. It was very hard to make out anything without his glasses, but if he had to guess, he'd say Paul had turned his back and was getting dressed. Well, if he wanted to be a spoilsport, that was fine with him. He'd simply have to enjoy the swim on behalf of both of them, which he did.

Though he was more of a city kind of bloke than anything else, John did appreciate his surroundings very much. It was a pity the army owned the entire forest. It was a beautiful place, and one he wouldn't mind visiting every now and again - if only for the memories it would bring back. Memories of seeing a whole new side of Paul. Something about this place seemed to loosen the boy up a bit. Perhaps he was more of an outdoorsman, who knew, but once they were away from that campsite...

Letting someone take control of him like that was new for John. He hadn't had that many girlfriends. Not steady ones, anyway, but they'd always expected him to take the lead. He'd never had a bird that would challenge him. And of course, he never had a boyfriend before. Nobody had ever taken the reigns and dominated him, but Paul had. And he had enjoyed it, relaxed into it, let it all happen. The ease with which he'd let Paul boss him around frankly amazed John, but then so had the things they'd done. They'd already gone so much further than he ever expected they would, and it only fuelled those maddening daydreams of all the other things they still had ahead of them. It was exciting, and new, and frightening, and weird, and he loved it.

He just wished Paul would've stayed in that liberated frame of mind and come out for a swim. The moon had been full just a few days ago, so it was shaped like a great, fat egg and giving off a lot of light. It turned the lake into a giant mirror with millions of sparkles. It looked so friendly, John couldn't resist it. There was a mild chill in the air like the weather was about to change, but the warmth hadn't dissipated yet, and the water didn't seem as cold as Paul warned him it would be. Or perhaps it was, and he was simply too shagged out to notice. John didn't really care; he had too much of a good time to bother with such inanities.

It actually seemed like a fun idea to go all the way to the little island, just because he could, and perhaps to see what was there. If he found anything interesting, perhaps he might be able to persuade Paul to come and join him there. So far, he'd mostly been just mucking about, floating a bit, treading water for a while, swimming in circles, but never really making an effort to get anywhere. As a result, he hadn't reached the deep end yet. Now that he was making headway, though, John started to have some regrets. He hadn't got anywhere near the island yet, but the water definitely started to nip at his skin with annoying pinpricks that got increasingly painful, reminding him that even though it seemed alright at first, it was actually rather cold.

"Fucking hell, it's baltic out here," he yelled.

An almost bored voice reached him from across the lake. "Told you so."

"Told you so," John mimicked quietly so Paul couldn't hear it, putting on his demented voice. Of course he bloody told him so. But what good did that do him now? By then, he realised he wasn't going to make it to the middle of the lake, and that he needed to get back to the shallows. He was moving his arms and legs as best he could, but he didn't appear to really be going forward anymore. To make matters worse, his legs were beginning to seize up. "Paul," he yelled, "I'm getting cramps."

"So? Just get back" A brief chuckle instantly changed Paul's voice from long-suffering to mildly amused. "I'm sure you're clean by now. We didn't make that much of a mess, you know."

Enough of one to want to wash it off, John mused momentarily, though a sharp, stinging ache in his muscles abruptly reminded him of his unfortunate predicament. "I don't know if I can make it back."

He could hear a short, incredulous laugh ricocheting off the water. "Nice try, John. You're not fooling me into getting into that lake."

"It isn't a bloody joke!" He didn't really grasp the reality of it until he said it, but it was true. He could hear it in his own voice, and he could certainly feel it in the way he was losing the last of his energy. If something didn't happen soon, he really wouldn't make it back. Treading water was becoming too difficult. Up until a few moments before, his shoulders had been above the water but by now, he could hardly keep his chin from being permanently submerged. It couldn't be more than fifty yards to the banks, he should be able to swim that far.

And yet, he couldn't. He couldn't even make himself float anymore. All his efforts couldn't prevent him from going under. He tried to swim underwater, hoping the weightlessness would take him closer to safety, and then his breath ran out. He struggled back to the surface, huffing frantically. He tried to see where he was, hoping he'd made progress. He seemed to have moved two or three yards in the right direction, which wasn't nearly enough. He tried to cry out, tried to see where Paul was, but redirecting his attention to straining his eyes only resulted in sinking below the surface a second time. He managed to fight back that time, too, but he was in the throes of panic by then.

He flailed wildly, trying to stay afloat, aware that he wouldn't be able to make it back without help. With a Herculean effort, he shouted Paul's name, not knowing if he was aware of what was going on. If only he had his glasses on, he might have been able to see if he had any hope of being saved. But they were in the grass, atop his clothes. When the water closed over his head for the fourth or fifth time, he knew that was it for him. He didn't have the strength to move his limbs anymore. A sort of resigned calmness replaced the blinding fear, and he just gave up. All he had left to do was exhale, and then allow the water to fill his lungs and it would be over. Remarkable really, John mused in a final moment of clarity, how quickly a lovely night could turn grim. But it didn't matter anymore. Not for him. Any second now, nothing at all would ever bother him anymore. All he had to do was exhale. Now...

~*~

Somehow, John had imagined death to be more peaceful. He'd contemplated what it might be like but never had it involved him lying soaking wet on a muddy bank, coughing and wheezing as a familiar figure crawled away from him on all fours. It wasn't until he realised he wasn't dead at all that he made the connection. Or maybe it was the sight of Paul struggling to his feet that managed to pull John back into reality. "You saved my life," he managed to exclaim between ragged breaths.

Rather than an acknowledgement, or any kind of reassurance, Paul looked at him with eyes that oozed such rage, John could clearly see it without his glasses on. In fact, his entire face was a distorted mask of pure anger. "Fucking idiot," he screamed, "what the fuck were you thinking? Are you bloody mental? Of all the crap stunts you've pulled so far, this is fucking up there! I fucking warned you it was too cold, but no, you had to go drown yerself. You're a bloody moron, Lennon! Why do I even bother with you? Fucking hell...." He abruptly broke off his rant and stalked off to a spot several yards away, where he slumped down and stared at the lake wearing the scowl of all scowls. Something told him Paul was upset.

Perhaps it was the dulcet tone of his voice or the eloquence of his words... Sarcasm aside, John knew the scolding was justified. Had the situation been reversed, he probably would've decked Paul, or worse. He reckoned it was better to leave him alone for a little while, and he was getting cold anyway, so he went to find his clothes and attempted to put them back on. It was harder than anticipated; his skin was still quite damp and his extremities were like ice. It made something as simple as buttoning his shirt a daunting task. It got worse when the pins and needles arrived. It hurt like hell, and he nearly commented on it, but he thought better of it when he looked at his mate. Paul sat with his legs pulled up and his hands in his hair. It was difficult to see his face, but he looked miserable. And wet. Literally dripping, actually. Only then did he realise Paul had been fully dressed - boots and all - when he came to his rescue. It sort of put his own discomfort into perspective. John inched closer, settling for half dressed for the time being.

"Don't cry, babe. Nobody died, thanks to you."

"I'm not crying," Paul growled. "Do one, John. Just.... bugger off, yeah?"

John abandoned the struggle to do up his buttons and knelt down next to Paul instead, ignoring the invitation to leave. Perhaps he really wasn't crying, but he sure seemed distraught. No wonder, he thought. If he'd come to the rescue any later, he probably would have been too late. "I'm sorry," he muttered as he wrapped his arms tightly around Paul. "It was a stupid idea."

"Yes, it was," the younger lad replied, but he reciprocated the embrace anyway, holding on tighter than he ever hugged John before. "Don't ever do anything like that again."

"I won't." He could feel shivers running through Paul. Going by the intensity of them, they seemed to start from deep within, rather than just his skin. Then again, he was soaked to the skin, and probably cold to the bone. John had goose pimples all over and was shivering a bit too, but, at least, he had dry clothes to wear, so he'd be warm again soon enough. "Let's get back to camp so you can get out of those wet rags before you catch pneumonia or something."

"I don't think that's how that works, John," he said, before letting go.

John just caught a glimpse of him running a hand over his eyes, but he thought it better to pretend he hadn't seen anything. For all he knew, it was just a way to shake off the trauma. He didn't want to make it into something it wasn't, sensing he'd cause a new row if he did. He'd been let off easy as it was, stirring the pot didn't seem like the best idea. Forcing his icy digits to comply, he managed to get dressed properly. In the minute or so it had taken him to do that, Paul seemed to have regained his composure, though his demeanour was quite detached. Apparently, it was going to take more than a mea culpa to bring back the cheerful mood he'd been in earlier.

-*-

Paul

If anyone had told him three months earlier there'd come a day he'd back a bloke into a tree and have his way with him, Paul would either have been insulted or have laughed in their face. Had they said the bloke would be John, he would have declared them clinically insane. And yet...

He supposed sneaking out of the camp had been a spark of brilliance on John's behalf. He'd been sceptical at first, wondering just how much trouble they'd be in if they'd get caught. But then, when they'd made a successful escape, Paul had started to feel more like himself with each passing minute. Or, whatever 'feeling like himself' meant these days. Apparently, it involved doing obscene things to a bloke who'd made his life hell not too long ago. The mere thought of himself not just dry fucking John, but getting off on it in ways he'd never been able to imagine, quite frankly had him gobsmacked. Of all the dirty thoughts he'd ever had growing up - and he'd had a few - nothing had ever come close to... well, that.

Put into that perspective, perhaps being forced to jump fully dressed into a cold lake to save some fuckwit's life was actually not all that unusual. He had, after all, done it once before. Granted, it'd been the swimming baths then, and it'd been Mike who needed saving, but the feeling was much the same. It'd been a shitty way to end a perfectly good day then, just as it was now. If only John hadn't insisted on going for that swim. Paul would've been perfectly happy to go the rest of his life without being forced to save anyone.

Even now, years later, he could still feel the dread he'd experienced as a ten-year-old, could still recall the trauma of seeing his baby brother sinking. He'd tried to shrug it off then, tried to sound cavalier when he'd dismissed the event as a good way to practice his rescue swimming. But after they'd got home, he'd locked himself in the bathroom and cried his eyes out. He'd barely slept a wink that night; kept seeing Mike all blue and still. Twice, he'd got out of bed just to reassure himself that the kid was right as rain. He didn't think it'd get that bad now, liked to think he had matured enough to not be haunted by the memory of John going under, or not knowing whether or not the body he dragged to shore still had any life in it. It'd be even better if he could forget that embarrassing tantrum.

He hadn't even been that angry at John. Blowing up at him like that had mostly been a reaction to the shock that wouldn't quite go away. Even now, as they quietly walked back to the campsite, Paul struggled to pull himself together. He tried to push the wild current of emotions back into a corner where he could build a wall around them, just like he always did with thoughts and feelings that were too intense for him to deal with. Maybe that was the biggest shock: realising just how important John was to him. He knew he loved him, but that much? It was unsettling, and Paul needed some distance between himself and John to sort himself out.

Somehow, John seemed to understand. For the better part of the trek back to camp, he'd kept his distance. But as the campfire loomed in the distance, it was obvious he'd used up his patience. Without warning, he bridged the gap between them and grabbed Paul's hand, recoiling slightly at the touch. "Bloody hell, your hands are like ice."

"I know."

"Still gotta cob on then, do you?" Paul felt John's eyes on him but didn't meet his gaze. Not yet. "I said I was sorry, Macca. What else do you want?"

"I'm not mad at you," Paul mumbled, throwing John a brief sideways glance, not sure if he could handle more. "You scared me. I'm freezing. I'm knackered. But I'm not angry."

"Good," John muttered, squeezing Paul's hand just for a second. "So, are we okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine."

Paul never thought he'd be so happy to reach that tent. So far, he'd had managed to keep his teeth from chattering too badly, but he was colder than ever. His hair had dried, and his clothes weren't dripping anymore, but he was sopping in his boots and the hand John was holding was just about the only part of him that didn't feel like an ice cube. He'd started sneezing not long after they left the lake, too. Not just ordinary sniffles, either. They nearly tore up his larynx, and they made his head buzz. The shivers were even worse. They came from somewhere in the pit of his stomach and just kept coming and coming. The intensity of them was exhausting, he just wanted them to stop.

Whilst Paul struggled to keep his sneezes to a minimum as he clumsily undressed, John somehow took charge by zipping their sleeping bags together to create one big enough for two. That didn't really surprise Paul all that much, but he couldn't help but stop what he was doing when John unceremoniously stripped down as well. "I know why I'm undressing," he whispered, pinching his nose just in time to muffle a sneeze, "but why are you?"

"To fool around, why else?" John cackled softly at Paul's indignant scowl but seemed to catch on that this wasn't the time for it. "To help you get warm quicker. Stop mucking about and get in there, Paul."

"Have you ever tried to untie wet shoelaces?" He annoyedly tugged at them. The wetness of them made it next to impossible to get the knots out.

"Yeah, I have. Assault course, major Arsehole, remember? Come on, Macca, it's not that difficult. Or do you need me to help?"

"I can tie my own shoes, thank you," he huffed indignantly. He finally seemed to make some headway.

"Aye," John grinned from under the covers, "but can you untie them?"

At last, the boots were off. Paul put them upside down in the far corner, hoping they'd dry a bit. His socks were probably the worst. When he wrung them out, a small puddle of drab water appeared. He laid out his stuff as widely as the cramped space allowed, and then crawled into the warm sleeping bag where John snuggled up close, holding him tight until finally, the shivers lessened and the sneezing stopped long enough to focus on other, more pleasant things. He pressed his still freezing feet against John's calves, in part as revenge, but mainly hoping it'd warm them up faster. Going by the expletives John uttered under his breath, the gesture wasn't appreciated. It didn't help much, anyway. As Paul soon discovered, John's initial suggestion of making out was far more effective in warming up. By the time the first raindrops started tapping a soothing rhythm onto the canvas, Paul actually felt human again.

"I better come up with a good excuse for those wet clothes," he grinned, reminded of the smelly pile by the increasing density of the rain. "I don't think they'll assume I got caught in that torrent."

"Say you took 'em out for a wash."

"Well, in a way, that's true."

"Yeah," John chuckled, "it's just that most people don't climb into the washing machine along with their laundry."

The mental image made Paul snort, then giggle, and then cry with laughter, soon joined by John, which only made things worse. They tried to muffle it, without much success, and every time one of them showed signs of calming down, the other burst out again, causing them to succumb to another round of giggles. Before long, an irritated voice echoed across the campsite.

"Lads, what's so bloody funny you have to wake the whole camp?"

Without missing a beat, John yelled back, "fart war", sending Paul into another fit of laughter. This time, several others were giggling, too.

"Oh. Who's winning?"

"It's a draw so far. Check in the morning. I'll give you a hint: whoever's dead, didn't win."

Jason, the owner of the annoyed voice, chuckled a bit. "Well, get on with it and die quietly, alright?"

"We'll try, mate."

It took a few moments for the assorted obscene noises, giggles and murmurs to die down. By then, John had managed to somewhat stop laughing, too. Paul himself had felt the smile drop from his face the moment John made his joke about dying. Somehow, the innocent comment had struck a massive hole in the not yet cemented wall he'd so carefully built around his feelings of terror. It completely dislodged the emotions he'd been trying to lock away and before he knew it, the tears were running down his face again, only this time, they weren't happy ones. At first, John didn't seem to notice. When Paul hid his face against his chest to muffle the sound, however, he caught on and held him tightly. Pretty soon, Paul could feel and hear John was sobbing as well.

"I was so fucking scared John," he managed to say when he calmed a little. "I couldn't find you in that water. I thought you were dead."

"Me too."

He looked at John in the darkness. The moon was now obscured by rain clouds, so the most he could see was his outline and the whites of his eyes. "I couldn't bear to lose you, John. I love you too much." He hadn't intended to say that. It was too soon. He'd meant it, but fuck if he didn't wish he could take it back. For a few aggravating seconds, John didn't respond whilst Paul nervously chewed his bottom lip, wishing John would just say something - anything - to break the tension.

"I love you too."

Well. Alright. That was unexpected. For a moment or two, Paul wasn't sure what to say or do, but then he heard himself grinning, "Good. You can save my arse next time, then."

"Deal," John chuckled. "Let's shake on it."

"Oh, I think we can do better than that..."

-*-

31 August 1961

John

When he woke up, the sound of thick raindrops pummelling the thin material of the tent was the first thing he heard. Listening beyond it, he concluded the camp already seemed quite busy. He could hear people talking. Apparently, they had either overslept or were about to. If it was up to him, he'd stay where he was rather than attempt to join the others for what would be a very soggy day of reenactment, sniping, and target practice. Going by the tickle on his chest, he wasn't the only one.  
A large, green lump was all he could see of Paul, so he lifted the uppermost bit of the sleeping bag to reveal a wild, tangled mess of black hair, which was attached to the bloke curled up like a cat with his head on John's lower chest.

"I don't mind you down there," he teased suggestively, "but what on Earth are you doing?"

"Hiding."

"From whom?"

"Them," Paul sighed dramatically. "The world. The rain. Reality. You choose."

"Why?"

He shrugged. Why not?"

"Fair enough. Any room for me?"

"Sure." He moved off of John, creating enough of a gap for him to wiggle his way down until the top of their hideout blocked out much of the light and most of the sound. It was impossibly tight, and somehow surprisingly comfortable, like their own little cocoon, in which it was easy to pretend the rest of the world and all the worries that were in it didn't exist. John could see the charm of it.

"So," John inquired, "what do we do now?"

Paul grinned softly. "I don't know. Just be, I guess."

For a moment, John kept quiet, his brain working overtime to figure out what was really going on. Eventually, he gave up. "So, what's really going on, Paul?"

"I think you know," he muttered after a long-suffering sigh. "Last night... It's opened these ruddy floodgates, you know? I'm not sure I can stop feeling all of this... stuff. It's too much."

"Feelings aren't bad, you know. Everybody has them; even you."

"I know, it's just..." Paul pulled his eyebrows together in a deep frown. "I'm sick of all this army shite, John. I just want it to be over."

To be honest, John didn't particularly feel like going out there and acting as if nothing had happened, either. They simply didn't have any choice. "We're more than halfway done, Paul. Less than nine months to go, right, and only a month until we get to share a tent again."

"Hmm. That's a long time, though."

"We'll find a way to make the time go faster."

"Got any ideas?" The cheeky grin on Macca's face wasn't entirely genuine and didn't reach his eyes, but John appreciated it as an effort to make the best of a bad situation.

He nodded, tightening his grip on his lover ever so slightly. "A few."

"Such as?" Happy to meet the challenge, John provided one of his favourite examples. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of snogging Paul, a sentiment which was quite clearly mutual. For a few moments, he allowed himself to get carried away until he forced himself to stop when things got a bit too heated.

"Better leave it at that," he chuckled. "Or I might have to go for another swim."

"Don't count on me dragging you out this time. It's your turn, remember?" Yawning, Paul stretched his limbs, casting morose looks at the increasing sounds of activity just outside of their hideaway. "We'd better get dressed, or we'll miss breakfast."

"Yeah, I know." Stealing one more kiss, John lazily reached for his T-shirt. "We'll find a way to get through the next weeks, Macca. Anyway, do you know what day it is?"

"Thursday," Paul deadpanned instantly, pulling a face as he held up his soggy boots.

"Wrong."

"No, I'm not. It is Thursday, you know. The thirty-first." Ignoring John's protest, he quickly nicked his - perfectly dry - trousers and slipped into them, leaving his own damp ones for John. "Give us your socks, la'. You owe me."

"Forget it. Wear your own. We'll be soaked before lunch anyway," John grumbled, prying them out of Paul's grabby hands. "And I know the date, you div. That's not why I asked."

"Alright, why did you ask?"

He shook his head a bit, amused by the disgusted expression on Paul's face as he put on his own socks, which smelt as foul as they looked. "I thought you were the hopeless romantic here, son. We've been together a month today."

"Well, I know that," Paul shrugged as if it was the most mundane thing in the world.

"So why didn't you say anything?"

With one wet sock still half dangling off his foot, Paul smiled impishly. "I thought you might find that too sentimental. You know, something a bird might do."

"Unlike playing hide and seek in a blanket fort..."

"Blanket forts are very serious business, John," he said, making a very poor attempt at hiding his amusement as he tugged at the discarded sleeping bag. "I'm guarding it."

"Oh yeah," John cackled, "and how's that going?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid. There seems to have been an intruder."

John laughed at the tragicomic way in which he had said it. "What does he look like? I'll punch him for ye if I see him."

"Well," Paul chuckled, wrenching his feet into John's boots before he could be stopped, "he's this myopic ginger bloke..."

"I'm not ginger," he protested loudly. "And your boots don't fit me. Give over."

"Are you sure about that?" Paul grinned and ran his fingers over John's - very red - sideboards and stubble, but refused to surrender the stolen footwear. "Pity. I quite fancy gingers."

"Yeah, ginger girls."

Paul moved his head in next to John's and murmured in his ear, "you were certainly moaning like one when I had you up against that tree."

"Well, you did promise I would, didn't you," Just muttered, wondering if perhaps there were laws about sounding that sensual that early in the morning. If there weren't, there certainly should be. If they carried on like this, he'd show up at breakfast with a stiffy the size of the Liver building.

"I never make a promise I don't intend to keep," Paul grinned. "So... one month together. That's something, isn't it?"

"It is. Do you know how we can make it two?"

"Well?"

"By not getting found out," he laughed, pushing hard against Paul's chest to keep him from confiscating the one dry jacket as well. Ignoring the semi-insulted scowl, John decidedly opened the tent and stepped out into the pouring rain. "Come'ead, you randy git. Duty calls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N The near-drowning experience is based on / inspired by real life events. Not many people know this - though you might - but Paul nearly drowned. Not once, but twice. First in 1951 or 1952, when he and Mike fell into a lime pit and just barely lived to tell the tale, thanks to a neighbour who heard their cries for help. The second time was in 1963 when the Beatles were at some beach and he got caught in the waves. He'd pretty much accepted he was going to drown when he finally managed to get himself to safety. He did also save Mike from drowning in the swimming baths when he was 10. So, should you feel this chapter had a bit too much of a soap-opera feel to it, this hopefully puts that into perspective. In this case, I reversed the roles because it seems more likely for John to get into that kind of trouble.  
> Anyway, please comment. Comments are what keep me inspired


	22. You Like Me Too Much (And I Like You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright... So, I'm back. For now. I hope you'll appreciate the chapters when they come. In this one, I'm referencing 'Cayenne', which is a little-known gem from the very early days of the Beatles. Paul McCartney wrote the tune in 1960, when he was 17 years old. A recording of the song was made in the bathroom at 20 Forthlin Road, during the Easter holiday, which was mid-April. Paul played lead guitar, John played rhythm, and Stuart played bass. George was not present; he was probably at work. An abbreviated version of Cayenne is included in Anthology 1, but you can hear the complete song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-dOsA2z1V8
> 
> And another thing...
> 
> I'm going to see Paul in Liverpool! Many of you will have heard about the massive controversy surrounding the ticket sales. Basically, many tickets were scooped up by toutes who offered them at ridiculous prices, and the AmEx presale, which allowed people to get 6 tickets at once, also made it next to impossible for regular fans to get a ticket. As a result, the shows that went on sale on the 16th were sold out within seconds. I'd been kept in a queue for 75 minutes before I was told the tickets were all gone. I was devastated! Thankfully, a very kind fan took pity on me and offered me a spare ticket they had, against the same price they paid for it at the Echo Arena. Everything was arranged without any issues, and they sent me the order confirmation along with their personal information right before I went to bed on Tuesday. Needless to say, I was over the moon! It was dark outside, but I could've lit up the room, I was smiling so much! I immediately booked my flight and found a place to stay. Guess what? The first viable hotel on the list was Childwall Abbey. John, Paul, and George played there on Harry Harrison's (George's older brother) wedding reception in December 1958. I never intended to find anything quite like it, I just wanted a cheap but clean place to sleep that wasn't a dormitory. So.... I'm visiting Liverpool twice this year: 24-30 October to celebrate my 40th birthday, and 12-13 December to see Paul at the Echo Arena. I'm just.... (insert typical Macca scream)....
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Please leave your feeback in the comments. Thank you!

12 September 1961

Paul

"...John? Are you listening?" Frowning, Paul looked up from his notebook, in which he'd been writing down and scratching out the songs they both knew how to play, trying to determine the best songs for their Christmas variety performance. He really wanted to put on a great show, but so far John had been of no help at all.

He didn't mind creating the set list on his own so much, but he knew John wouldn't hesitate to make a blistering comment if the result wasn't to his liking. So, Paul would much rather discuss it together to avoid having to deal with John's fickle temper. The man in question seemed more interested in noodling on his guitar, though. He'd been repeating the same chord sequence for several minutes, and it still sounded wrong. Apparently, John knew it, too.

"Yeah, yeah. Fifteen minutes," he grumbled. "'Some Other Guy', I heard you. Just pick some songs, Paul, nobody will care who sings what." He gave his guitar a frustrated strum. "I can't get this bloody chord right. It sounds all wrong."

"That's because you're playing the major instead of the seventh chord."

"Naff off, I am playing the seventh, see?" Thick eyebrows knitted together in concentration, John plucked the strings one by one, producing a lovely D major chord.

Paul shook his head, sniggering softly. "Your distraction tactics won't work on me this time, John. You do know I know you're doing this on purpose, right?"

"Who, me? I wouldn't dare!" He batted his eyelashes dramatically, drawing a somewhat louder snort from Paul. "I'm innocent, see?"

"Yeah, yer a wee lamb, Lennon. Here... Change these 'round... Stop fighting me, this was your idea... There you go." Paul picked up his journal again, wondering why he kept giving in to John's antics. "You're too much, you know that?"

Leaning back with the smuggest possible expression on his face, John strummed the newly formed D7 chord, then effortlessly changed to the major chord and back. "Maybe, but I still got my way, didn't I?"

"Don't you always? At least you admitted it this time. Now, focus. Let's get this setlist done, yeah?"

"I'd rather get something else done," John crooned, taking his hand off the guitar and putting it somewhere that didn't leave any room for debate over what he might have in mind.

Capitulating was really the only option Paul had. It was so difficult to resist John, especially when he was in that good a mood. And snogging was so much more fun than trying to fit six songs into fifteen minutes. He could spare a kiss... Or two, or several. But then they really had to get back to whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. He couldn't quite recall what it was that was so important until he received a not-so-gentle reminder when the sharp edge of a guitar guaranteed not to crack poked him in the ribs.

Paul reluctantly pushed John's hand away, determined not to let himself get sidetracked again. "Yer a cagey bastard, Lennon," he muttered hoarsely, feeling rather flustered. He definitely needed a few moments to compose himself. "Anyway, where were we?"

He managed to actually keep his mind on the music for a few minutes, which wasn't easy with John trying every trick in the book to get his way. What he wanted, though - and what Paul quite honestly wanted too - simply wasn't possible. They were well hidden in their little corner behind the library, but they weren't the only ones who knew about it. Hardly anyone ever came there, since it faced the high, red brick wall that separated the barracks from the adjacent street. But although the chance of someone walking in on them was minor, it was a chance nonetheless. With that in mind, Paul willed himself to ignore the persistent advances, and complete the task he had imposed on himself. If John would just give one good suggestion, they'd be done.

"I reckon a slow song would be great to follow that rocker. To catch a breath, you know. Then I have a gap, and I thought we might finish with one of our own, say 'Love Me Do', or..." Paul abruptly interrupted his monologue and raised an eyebrow at the waft of cigarette smoke being  
aimed directly at him. If it was another attempt at persuading him, it certainly was an original approach, if not a questionable one. "John, love, what are you doing?"

"Don't move."

Trying in vain to wave away the clouds of smoke, Paul rolled his eyes at John, who seemed to be aiming at a spot near his ear. "What are you playing at? We really need to work on this, you know. How else will Richie know what to play? We haven't even rehearsed once, and..."

John sharply cut him off mid-sentence. "Shut yer gob and sit still. Remember that wasp you chased off earlier?"

"What about it?"

"Well, it's back and now it's stuck in yer hair."

That caught his attention. Ever since he and Mike ended up sick in bed for two weeks after a vicious bee attack - which may or may not have been the direct result of stoning the hive - Paul had a passionate dislike for black-and-yellow flying insects, save perhaps bumblebees. He thought those were rather cute, even when one accidentally ended up trapped in his bedroom and kept him awake with its buzzing. Not wasps, though. He had very little love for those. He instinctively reached for his head, but John swatted his hand away. "What are you mucking about for, then? Get it off!"

"That's what I'm trying to do, genius," John grumbled, grabbing his wrist to keep him from doing anything stupid like try and whack a wasp. "Stop batting at it! You'll only make it angrier. I'm working on it, right?"

"By blowing smoke at it? Bloody try harder."

For a handful of seconds, John stared blankly at him, as if he'd just encountered the stupidest git on the planet. "I'd be more than happy to bash you on the head, only you'd probably get stung. It looks mad enough as it is. And stop trying to grab it, soft git."

Dejectedly, Paul lowered the hand he'd wrenched out of John's grip to swat at the wasp again, which had resulted in receiving a rather painful slap on the wrist from John, whose expression indicated he'd be hitting a lot harder if Paul would continue to act like a fool. Seemingly contented by the surrender, John blew more smoke from the cigarette that was all but gone now. "What's with the smoke, anyway?"

"Works on bees, doesn't it? Makes 'em drowsy or something, I don't know." Unable to fit the stub between his lips anymore, John stomped it out, and scrutinised the result of his efforts. "Give us a scrap of paper so I can get it out."

Paul obediently leafed through his notebook, deciding what to sacrifice. It seemed like such a shame to tear out a blank page, and there were so few that didn't have anything worth keeping on either side. It hurt just to think about it, really. Hoping to change John's mind, he pleaded, "can't you just grab it?"

"Do I look like I want to get stung? Hurry up, son. The bloody thing is really getting wound up."

"Wouldn't you be, if someone tried to gas you?" Paul could definitely hear the damn thing buzzing near his ear now. Somehow, it made the reality sink in, so he reluctantly ripped out a bit of paper, hoping it didn't have anything good on it, like the words to their first number one hit song or something. John didn't even wait for the scrap to be handed to him; he instantly grabbed it and started poking at his target which prompted the wasp to buzz a lot louder. "What's going on, John? You better not piss it off even more."

"Calm down, princess. Nearly there," John muttered, his face just inches from Paul's head. There was a rather annoyed-sounding buzz for a second or two, and then John crushed the folded piece of paper underneath the heel of his boot. "There, nice and dead."

"You didn't have to kill it, you know." Ignoring the new nickname seemed the best way to proceed if he didn't want to be stuck with it. "But thanks anyway."

"What are you on about? You hate wasps! Most sane people do. They're a useless bloody nuisance."

Now that the threat was gone, Paul could deny he had wanted to see the ruddy thing dead from the moment it first came to annoy them. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean they have to be killed. They just need to stay away."

"I'll make sure to forward your request. I'm sure they'd be happy to oblige," John grinned. "It's yer own fault you managed to get one stuck in there, you know. If you weren't so bloody vain, you wouldn't have had this problem. How much brilliantine have you got in there, anyway?"

Trying to read upside down in hopes of determining what was on the sheet of paper he'd sacrificed, Paul muttered the closest thing he had to a defence. "Oh, and your hair is naturally like that, is it? You've already been told about your hair being too long. Greasing it back isn't going to make it shorter, you know."

"Right, and when's the last time you had a haircut?" John ran a hand through Paul's quiff, messing it up in the process. "Hang on... That stuff you use to do yer hair, is that scented?"

"Of course not," Paul huffed indignantly, trying unsuccessfully to undo the damage inflicted by John. "Don't be soft."

"Well, it smells of something."

"I put it in right after shaving, so I probably had aftershave on my hands." In fact, he was certain of it. He wouldn't admit it, but he had briefly considered getting the scented kind, except he couldn't justify the cost. It was nearly twice as expensive as the normal variety, so he'd fashioned  
his own by not washing his hands before doing his hair. He only did it because John seemed to like the smell of it, what with him forever nicking Paul's aftershave and that. But that wouldn't attract insects, would it? If anything, he always thought it warded them off somehow.

"No, it's not that," John murmured, smelling his fingertips again. "It's sweeter. Fruity."

"You're fruity, John." Suddenly, the penny dropped. "Jam."

"Yer wha'?"

"Blackberry jam. Remember?" He gave John a meaningful look.

"Oh, that. Nearly made me cream my knickers with that, you dirty slag," John cackled.

Paul felt his cheeks turn crimson. He had, indeed, teased John relentlessly by holding his gaze whilst sucking on his digits far longer and much more provocatively than needed. It started off as an innocent gesture, quickly popping his thumb into his mouth to get the jam off after he got some  
on his hand by accident. It had only lasted a few seconds. It would have been even less if the stuff didn't stick to his skin so much. He had noticed the effect it had on John, though. For some reason, he appeared to have forgotten how to chew. Or how to close his mouth, for that matter. Or even  
how to blink. So he accidentally on purpose managed to get even more purple stains on his fingers and he had put on quite a little show for John. It was the very reason Ringo had smacked him, rather painfully, in the back of the head.

"Yeah, well. You're one to talk," he mumbled, vividly remembering a quite recent, and particularly daring surprise attack which easily could've ended badly, but had ended very, very good. Well, for him, anyway. This army shite wasn't the only thing John had a talent for, that much was undeniable. Not that he was going to be handing out compliments right now... "And another thing. Didn't you see Rich was going to hit me? You could've warned me, you know."

"Wasn't looking at him, was I?" John winked mischievously. "Five bob says he was just jealous."

"Of what?"

"Me. Yer prettier than his girlfriend..."

Paul snorted. "Am I, now?"

"Yeah," John said with a rather accomplished smirk. "More vain, too."

"Git."

"Careful, or I won't fool around with you anymore."

Paul wasn't impressed. "As if!"

"Oh, you think I can't resist you?"

"I don't think that," he said smugly, "I know it for a fact."

"Prove it."

Why did he keep giving John these opportunities to test his resolve? Paul wasn't sure, but he should've known John wouldn't miss an opportunity to challenge him into doing something dangerous. He probably didn't even want to take the risk; it was more likely he only wanted to see how far he could push his idiot boyfriend. Well, Paul tried to tell himself, Private John Winston Lennon wasn't going to win that one. Someone had to keep their wits about them. Sort of. Most of the time. When the temptation wasn't too irresistible... Who was he kidding anyway? Didn't John generally win? "Alright." Before that Cheshire Cat-grin could get too wide, Paul grasped at his final straw. "When we go camping again."

"Coward." John lowered his voice to a rasp, making the hairs on the back of Paul's neck stand on end. "How about tonight? You, me, bathroom... What do you say, Macca? I dare you."

"You da-..." Bollocks. How the fuck was he supposed to get out of that without proving John right? Lost for words, Paul resorted to shooting daggers with his eyes, which clearly missed the intended goal. John simply laughed it off.

"What's the matter, Macca? Scared of getting caught? Nothing's going to happen, anyway; you won't be able to seduce me, remember?"

"We'll just have to see about that, won't we," he finally muttered. Now, for the last time, can we please just focus on this setlist? We need at least one more song."

"The Sheik of Araby," John promptly proffered casually, giving Paul the impression he'd had that song in mind all along.

"You like men creeping into your tent at night then, do you?" Chuckling, he wrote it down, softly humming the melody to the silly song.

"Not half!"

Not a beat later, the half-arsed singing effort came to an abrupt end when John evidently forgot he was trying to resist Paul's charms. Game, set, match. When Paul finally managed to escape John's groping hands, he chuckled, "...and this round goes to McCartney. What's the score, Johnny Boy?"

"Oh, shut up."

He leant in close until his lips brushed the shell of John's ear. "Make me..."

-*-

9 October 1961

John

"Happy birthday, Johnny boy!"

The addressed grumbled and pulled the covers up over his head. Too. Fucking. Early.

"Come on, John. Rise and shine. It's a beautiful day. If you like rain. And storm. And hail. Alright, the weather sucks, but it doesn't matter because it's your birthday!" How the fuck could that bellend McCartney be so chipper? He had to be hungover, if only because John was, and solidarity was the least one should be able to expect from a boyfriend. Muttering under his breath, John managed to present Paul with a two-fingered salute, which somehow only seemed to cheer the git up even more. "Go on, get up!"

Getting up was the last thing John wanted, really. Perhaps the previous night's birthday celebration had been a bit too much fun. If only he could remember more of it. All he could piece together from the bits he did recall was that it had been somewhat wild. No wonder, considering who'd been there. Scousers generally knew how to have a good time, and their other mates certainly knew how to keep up with the Misfits' pace.

Gifts hadn't been all he'd been given, though perhaps the lads should've kept it at chocolate and cigarettes because giving a round of drinks was one thing, his head told him he'd been treated to a few too many. Not that he'd been drinking alone, mind. He didn't know how drunk the others had got, but he was damn sure Paul had been completely kaylied to the point of barely being able to find the right dormitory, let alone do anything worth mentioning during their attempted afterparty.

Then again, he'd hadn't exactly risen to the occasion, either. It gave the words 'soft lad' a whole new meaning, and not one he'd hoped to apply to himself. Why couldn't he have forgotten that, and remembered more of his birthday party instead? But more importantly, if he was this badly affected by their bender, then why the hell was Paul so bloody cheerful? Perhaps it was true what they said about everything going downhill once you hit twenty-one. He just hadn't expected it to change so abruptly.

Whatever the reason, though, he was not in the mood for the McCharmley treatment. Birthday or not, it was too bloody early for any of that shite. "Piss off, Macca. It's not even properly light outside yet!"

"Well, if you think it's too early for prezzies..."

John pushed back the blanket and looked at Paul with piqued interest. "Did you say prezzies? Plural? As in more than one?"

"I did, actually, but since you don't seem to want them, I'll just-..." He waved his hand about in that vague manner which could mean anything. Apparently, today it meant 'I'll just take them back, then'.

"I want them. What did you get me?"

"Find out for yourself. They're right there," Paul grinned, pointing at the foot of the bed, or rather the footlocker that was pushed up against it. John found himself squinting at the parcels that couldn't be missed; the paper was so bright, it would've given him a headache if he didn't already have one. Whatever was in them and whatever shop it came from, they could do to reconsider their choice of wrapping paper.

Yawning, he sat up and groped for his glasses. He closed his eyes for a moment to make the room stop spinning, and then carefully looked around when his head no longer throbbed as if a marching band got trapped inside. Most of their dorm mates were up and about, which seemed a bit silly to John since breakfast wouldn't be served for a while yet. Would it?

Now that he was more or less up, he could see just how dark the clouds were and realised it was probably later than he thought. Even Paul, he saw now, was fully dressed and clean-shaven, though, on closer inspection, he did show signs of being at least somewhat hungover. It did John good to know he wouldn't be completely alone in his misery. He stretched a bit and vigorously scratched his head before moving to grab the packages that were waiting for him. He hadn't expected any, not with the disappointing array the local shops offered. So seeing not one, but two was a massive surprise.

He unwrapped the biggest one first, impatiently tearing off the offensive paper that concealed its contents. The shape and weight of it gave him a clue; it was flat and rectangular, and thick, and rather heavy. So, probably a book or something. He wasn't far off the mark. It turned out to be a large sketching pad with nice, thick sheets of cream-coloured paper. It had a bit of a rough grain to it. Moments later, a nice tin of assorted graphite pencils tumbled out of the second wrapper. He picked up the tin and scrutinised its  
contents, noticing each pencil had a different hardness. They weren't his preferred medium, but he didn't mind giving them a bash. Picking up the softest one, John casually drew some quick lines, managing a cartoon of himself which wasn't the best he'd ever done, but bloody brilliant work considering his hangover.

It felt good to be drawing properly again. For the last few months, he'd regularly vandalised Paul's journal - either by tearing out pages, or simply doodling on blank corners, much to the boy's disapproval. Having something decent to work with was great; Paul couldn't have got him a better gift. Well, he could, but... Hoping it'd translate his feelings better than his words would, John smiled broadly at Paul, whose face simply lit up. Clearly, he hadn't been sure if he'd made the right choice.

"Do you like it? I know you prefer pens and I would've got you some, except they didn't have any so-..."

"Will you shut up, Macca? They're brilliant." Pretending to find a spot for his newly acquired art supplies, John leant a bit nearer, and muttered softly, "Cheers, love."

"So, does that mean you won't be ripping any more pages out of my journal, then?"

"Maybe."

"What will it take to make it a yes?"

John took a closer look at Paul's amused expression. Someone less acquainted with his features might not even be able to tell he had been too drunk to count to ten the night before. Even John couldn't be sure how affected he was, but for some reason, he wanted to know. "Tell me how bad yer headache is."

"About a seven and a half," Paul sighed after a short pause. "It got better after I threw up. Repeatedly. Why else do you think I'm up so bloody early?"

So, the kid wasn't doing that much better than him, then. Not that knowing Paul had been so ill was particularly satisfying. He wasn't quite that heartless, right? But still, misery did love company. "Alright. I'll stop tearing pages out of yer journal."

"Great." Paul helplessly failed to stifle a massive yawn, which promptly triggered the same reflex in John. "Want to go get some coffee? My treat."

"It's free of charge, tight arse!"

"So? Go on, get up. Or do you need help, old man?"

If only he hadn't felt quite so grotty, John mused as he forced himself into action. He'd make that cheeky bastard pay for his insolence. "Youth these days," he muttered, wagging a finger at Paul, "no respect for the elderly..."

-*-

The first thing John noticed when he walked into the band rehearsal room was that Paul looked different than he had when he'd last seen him, about two hours earlier. Their timetables were about ninety per cent identical, but some courses were done in smaller groups, which accounted for the ten per cent difference. He and Paul were bang in the middle of the list of thirty men that shared a dormitory. That meant he had those split classes with Neil, who was first on the list, but without Paul, who was sixteenth. That lucky bastard had been enjoying a free hour when he and Neil had been trying to stay awake during another boring hour of vehicle maintenance.

John reckoned if he never had to change oil or repair a crankshaft again, it would be too soon. The fact that they got to work with unconventional vehicles such as tanks, buses, and landrovers didn't make the work any less of a drag, or any less dirty. Even after thoroughly washing his hands with the special stuff that was supposed to get the grease off, John's cuticles and the edges of his nail beds were still grimy. Or, the ones on his right hand, mostly. He kept the nails on the left about a millimetre shorter than the nail bed at all times, to make fretting his chords easier. An added advantage was that the black crap couldn't get underneath his nails nearly as much on that side.

Anyway, it would seem Paul had put the time on his hands to good use by getting his hair trimmed. Richie had done a great job on it. But then, he always did. A fortnight earlier, the senior member of their little band had even managed to find the middle ground between what the army demanded and what John wanted when he had gone in for a haircut. He still had his curls, albeit a bit shorter than they had been, but the back was shorn, in accordance with regulation. Paul's was similar now, although he had it styled in that army Elvis type of quiff again. The style John liked so much on him. "Sarge put his foot down then, did he?"

"Afraid so, yeah," Paul nodded, decidedly putting an end to John's arse-grabbing. "Geroff, Lennon. I just came from Richie's, actually."

Somewhat disappointed by the failed attempt at turning the welcoming snog into full-blown fooling around, John watched how Paul picked up his guitar. "He didn't come with you?"

"He'll drop by a bit later," Paul explained calmly as he tweaked the tuning pegs with surgical precision. "Admiral Halsey came in for a shave when he was about to close up for the day."

"Right at closing time? That's not on."

"I know," Paul muttered, his mind notably focused more on getting his B-string to sound perfect than on the conversation. "Anyway, I think he said it was for a fancy anniversary dinner or something. I'm not sure, I can hardly make out a word that bloke says half the time."

"Apparently, enunciation isn't important when all you really have to do is bark commands at people."

"I guess so." A smirk appeared on Paul's face when he lifted his head to look at John. "You've got some grease on your nose. What have you been up to?"

John stopped picking at the dirt underneath his nails and rubbed his sleeve on the designated organ. "I had to change some of the ball bearings on that old tank. You know, the decommissioned one. And then they made me check the gearbox."

"Exciting stuff, that," Paul grinned sarcastically as he raised his hand and proceeded to rub his thumb over a spot John had missed. "There, all gone. I didn't know tanks had gearboxes."

"You got a license to drive one. How can you not know they have gears? Besides, you must have worked on the mechanics as well."

"Not really..." Paul grinned impishly whilst John searched for a place to sit. "Whenever I have to work on that old relic, I usually just get into the driver's seat and start working on songs and that. You know, bang a spanner about from time to time to make them think I'm working. Got away with it thus far."

In a way, John was flattered by the revelation. He liked to think it was his influence that had led to Paul's misbehaving. Of course, he was equal parts annoyed that he hadn't thought of such a simple ruse himself. "Who knew you'd be such a rebel. What will you do when you have to take an exam?"

"Wing it," he shrugged. "How hard can it be?"

"You'll find out someday, I suppose. Anyway, let's get started. What do you want to play?"

Paul surprised him by acting all nervous all of a sudden. "I wanted to play something I just wrote, actually."

"Alright, let's hear it then."

John stepped back and plopped down back to front in the nearest chair, lazily resting his arms on the backrest. He watched Paul finish tuning his guitar, and waited for him to start playing. Normally, he wouldn't be quite that fussy about it; it was almost as if the lad, who was always so happy to show off his skills, was stalling for time. But then, after a fleeting glance in John's direction, he finally began to play.

The moment he heard those first few notes, John was intrigued. It was quite unlike what they usually played or wrote. It sounded Spanish or something. At first, it was a bit on the slow side, almost melancholic, with lots of minor notes. As it progressed, it got faster and more frantic, almost like his mind felt sometimes. He could tell Paul felt less confident about the middle part because he started to rush it a bit. There was a slight hesitation near the end, but then it went back to that slower part. It didn't sound as much like a lament then, though. The notes were largely the same, but they had taken on a different character and they gradually lead  
into a lovely little fade out. As much as John loved rock and roll, he instantly fell for the tune. It just made sense somehow, even with the different parts having such varying emotions.

"So," Paul muttered, chewing his bottom lip, "what do you reckon?"

"Oh, I reckon it's not too bad, Macca," he teased, noticing how those hypnotising eyes instantly darkened with something he definitely didn't want to see. Why did that idiot always have to be so sensitive about his music? "Don't be soft! I was only taking the piss, Paul, it's fucking brilliant!"

"So.... you like it?" When John nodded, Paul's lips curled into a smile at the same time that old twinkle returned to his eyes. "I'm glad you do. I wrote it for you, you know."

"Yer joking."

"No."

"Really?" He couldn't quite wrap his head around it. "You wrote that for me? When?"

"It's been hearing bits of it ever since we got together," Paul explained. "But I wrote most of it down this afternoon. It's not finished yet; I still have to write the words."

Though he mentioned the bit about finishing it in an hour or so very quickly, John definitely heard it. He'd also felt a vague pang of something unpleasant, though it was gone before he could recognise what it was. What remained was the sense of curiosity about why Paul would mention the lack of lyrics. Of course, it didn't have any. Why would it? "Are you serious? You should keep it like this. Words will only ruin it. Does it have a name?"

"Cayenne," he replied promptly, finally opting to put away the guitar. "Took a while to figure that one out."

"Why, does it mean anything special?" As much as he tried, John couldn't suss out what - if any - significance the rather strange title had.

Paul pulled up a chair and put it so close to John's, their knees touched when he sat down. "And I thought you were the wordsmith. Anyway, Cayenne sounds a bit like Cajun, right? And I reckoned Cajun sounds a bit like John, so... you know."

There was being clever with words, and then there was twisting them beyond recognition. Clearly, Paul had done the latter, because John never would've managed to make the connection. Still, the message was clear. "You dedicated it to me?"

"Yeah, I guess I did," he shrugged, picking at the palm of his right hand. "Too sentimental, or...?"

Perhaps it was a bit on the syrupy side. On the other hand, how many people could say they had a song named after them, even if it wasn't obvious? And a cracking one at that. John supposed there were worse things a bloke could do than that. "A bit, yeah, but you're forgiven. What’s with yer hand?"

"Nothing. I broke a string and the end sort of pricked me." He flinched a bit when John grabbed his hand to look at it. Apart from a tiny cut and some redness, there wasn't much to see. Even if there had been, he wouldn't have been able to have a proper look, what with Paul nearly instantly pulling his hand back so he could continue picking at the tiny bit of loose skin. "Told you it was nothing serious. It itches a bit. Drag about the string, though. That was my last set. Mike still hasn’t sent me any new ones."

"Stop picking, you'll make it worse," John grumbled in vain, as he tried to imagine the contents of his wardrobe. If he wasn't mistaken, he should be able to help out. "I think I’ve got a spare set. I’ll go get it."

"Cheers."

"Don’t mention it," John chuckled. "Write me another song instead Can you manage one in fifteen minutes, Mantovani?"

Paul raised an eyebrow. Just a second or so, but still. He obviously noticed the undertone John thought he'd heard in his own voice. He hadn't meant it as a jibe, but it had somehow managed to come out as one, and Paul had definitely picked up on that. Thankfully, he didn't think it serious enough to make a fuss. Instead, he joked, "No, but I can rewrite this one and name it after Richie if you keep giving me stupid nicknames."

"Already heard it, didn't I? Can’t take it back now, luv. In a bit... Mantovani."

The walk to and from the dormitory was long enough for John's mind to start wandering, although he wasn't sure where that somewhat bluesy feeling emerged from. Wasn't it true that he had everything to be happy about? He had friends, and someone who loved him enough to write him a song, and a fucking beautiful one at that. Who would have thought anyone would ever want to do that for him? His demons had been rather quiet as of late, and he hoped they’d stay that way. He knew they were always watching, though, waiting just outside his periphery, looking for a way in. Perhaps that was what was bothering him now: his dark side creeping in to jeopardise his happiness. Why couldn't that side of him leave well enough alone? John turned the packet of guitar strings he'd found exactly where it was supposed to be over and over in his hand. Despite the seemingly carefree birthday he had so far, something was eating at him. It was as if someone was whispering poisonous words into his ear and the more he tried to push it out of his mind, the louder that voice became until he realised what lay at the heart of it.

It was the song. It was good. No, it was great. And it had taken Paul what; all but an hour to write it down and learn how to play it? Sure, he said he’d been hearing bits of it in his head since that day they played truant, so he’d really been working on it for more than two months - if he was telling the truth and not just trying to be coy. But still, it didn’t seem fair that Paul could just conjure that kind of music out of thin air when he, John, always had to work so hard at coming up with a good song. Words he could do. In fact, that was one of the few things he did better than Paul. Words were easy. He was always making up new ones anyway, but melodies like that? He reckoned that even though it wasn’t Paul’s fault he could compose music in his sleep, he could at least have the sensitivity to pretend he had to actually work at it instead of rubbing it in everyone’s face how talented he was.

When he approached the band room again, John struggled to silence the nagging feeling that was poking holes into the kinder personality he'd fought so hard to develop. He wanted to move past his angry past, be a nicer person, not let those irrational feelings dominate him. He knew how much music meant to Paul, and that criticising him for what he was good at could cause permanent damage to what had blossomed between them. As much as he resented his lover sometimes, he didn’t want to lose him - ever. So, when he opened that door and walked into the room where Paul and Richie were having an impromptu percussion jam - Paul on drums and Richie rapping his hands on John’s guitar - he swallowed a nasty comment and forced a smile. He was not going to be bothered by the fact that on top of guitar and piano, Paul apparently also knew his way around a drum kit. He was not - repeat, not - going to ruin the day. Besides, who could possibly resent someone whose face lit up the moment John fucking Lennon entered the room? Nobody had ever looked at him like that, not even Cyn…

“Eh up, John. Alright?” Rich hadn't even turned around. He hadn't needed to. He probably knew who came in just by looking at Paul.

“Alright, Richie. Good job on Mantovani’s hair, son," he grinned, handing Paul the strings. "He’s been looking a right scruff lately.”

“New nickname, eh?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll keep this one.”

Paul looked up from his guitar. it would seem he had already removed the broken string when John was away, and he was now poking the new one through the hole in the tuning mechanism. “You won’t, you know, or I might have to start calling you Winnie again.”

“On second thought, I think Mantovani is a bit too posh. Macca sounds better.”

“Glad we got that sorted," he chuckled, carefully locking the string in place so it wouldn't come out once it got subjected to tension. "Richie’s said he's got some news for us.”

“That bloke doing pantomime cancelled. That means the schedule has to be redone,” Ringo promptly announced, rapping one final riff on John's guitar before holding the instrument out to its owner, who took it and played a few random chords, none of which appeared to be existing ones. It sounded terribly disjointed.

“Oh, what a pity. How will we ever get over the disappointment?”

“Some people like mimes, John," the drummer said as he took his place at the kit and started adjusting it to suit his preferences.

“Name one.”

“Erm…" Richie deftly avoided the question by playing an improvised fill. "Anyway, father MacKenzie came by earlier and asked if we were interested in adding five minutes to our show. I told him yes. I assume you won’t mind?”

John shook his head. Fifteen minutes or twenty; it didn't make that much difference either way. “Fine with me. Macca?”

Paul abandoned the endless plucking of the not yet tuned string and looked up. “No, no problem. But that means we have to rehearse two more songs, lads. Richie, why don't you sing one?"

"Nobody will want to hear me sing, Paul, not after you and John."

"Rubbish, you can sing just fine."

John agreed with that. Sure, Richie wasn't the best singer in the world, but he had a nice sound and more than enough enthusiasm. Besides, if only those who were the best at something were allowed to do it, then he might as well give up the guitar. He was good, but not great, unlike some people he knew. So, there was no reason Richie shouldn't sing. "I'm with Paul on that, Ringo. No reason you can't do a song, too."

Paul looked pleased. "See? Let me think. What was that song you liked a while back? Oh, I know. Boys."

"Yeah, do that one," John exclaimed, fancying the suggestion. He knew the song; he had the single at home. Great little tune, certainly something they could make work.

Clearly, Richard didn't agree with them at all, or he wouldn't have that look of utter horror on his face. "It's a girls' song. About boys!"

"So?"

Slowly, Richie looked from Paul to John and back, visibly amused by the way they'd spoken as one person. "You two may be queer, but I'm not!"

"Charming, son," Paul grinned, shaking his head. "Anyway, nobody will mind. We'll change a few words here and there, nobody's gonna know the difference. It'll be a great one to finish with. You know, end on a high."

Again, John agreed. "Let's give at least have a bash at it."

Richie still grumbled a bit, but if he disagreed with the way they altered the lyrics, he didn't mention it. After discussing the arrangement, Paul counted them in and the played it two times back to back, getting it nearly perfect the second time. And yet, it wasn't quite right just yet. At least, to John's ears, it wasn't. "Not bad at all, lads. It needs something else, though."

"Like what?"

He considered Paul's question for a bit. "Can you throw some of those Little Richard screams in there?"

"I'm already doing that in Long Tall Sally," Paul protested. John wasn't sure why; it wasn't like him to shy away from the attention that kind of contribution would give him.

He'd almost made a comment about it when Richie cut in, adding his vote which left Paul outnumbered two to one. "I agree with John. It'd really make it a kicker."

Throwing up his hands in defeat, Paul returned to the spot he'd wandered away from throughout the rehearsal. "Well, alright then. If you insist. From the top, then?"

John gave himself a mental pat on the back. It sounded much better with the screams. He had to light a fire under Paul halfway through the first chorus, urging him to just get out of his head and go for it, but once he did, there was no stopping him. One more thing Paul was better at, he caught himself thinking for just a second. Then again, as he threw one in for kicks, he wasn't a bad screamer, either. Different, perhaps, and his vocabulary of yells and shouts was perhaps not as diverse, but it wasn't necessarily worse. Together, he reckoned, they covered all the bases. It was just that Paul covered more of them... Before he could dwell on it too much, the song ended. Their little drummer summed it up rather well.

"That was superb."

"Not half," John grinned. The song's frantic energy had him buzzing but Paul seemed to have a bee in his bonnet. He was doing that thing, chewing on his thumbnail with that million-mile-stare of his. "Alright, Macca, out with it."

"What?"

"Whatever it is yer thinking." John sighed, wondering what he had thought up now. "Just tell us."

Paul shrugged. "It's nothing, really. I was just thinking we had more instruments. We might sound better if we were four instead of three. It would be nice if George could join us."

George? How the hell did that git enter the discussion? John knew the boy could play, but what could he add anyway, even if it had been possible to ask him to join? "Well he can't, can he? And how would adding an extra guitar help, Paul? Guitar bands are on the way out. Or so they say, anyway."

"No..." With that frown still etched in his brow, Paul looked around the room, his eyes darting everywhere as if he was looking for something. Apparently, he found it, because his gaze lingered on something and a beaming smile appeared on his face. "Not an extra guitar, John. What we need is a bass."

-*-

Ringo

Richard breathed a sigh of relief when he finally slumped down in the small sitting room. It wasn't much, and it didn't look like much, but it was home. Well, when he couldn't go to his true home up the Pool, of course. He supposed he'd have to stop thinking of his old bedroom at his mum's house as 'home' sometime and face the fact that his future most likely was in Aldershot. As far as homes went, there could be worse places. Sure, it wasn't Liverpool, but Richard liked the army town and was grateful for the tiny flat, just across the street from the barracks.

The place was very basic - little more than a glorified hotel room really. It had already been furnished when he moved in, back in the spring of fifty-eight, when he was still only seventeen years old. Though the sparse furniture had looked generic even then, he'd never bothered to change much about the decor. The biggest change had been the addition of a television; easily the most decadent thing he'd ever purchased. He'd never been much of a reader so there weren't many books on the shelves. He preferred listening to music anyway. He had most of his favourite records and a record player. Scattered about the flat were photographs of the people Richard cared for the most. He had somewhere to put his feet up and lay his head down. He even had a little fridge with a few refreshing beers. What more could a bloke want?

Of course, there was one other reason for his contentedness. Richard's eyes fell on the photo of his girlfriend. It was just wonderful how well they got along; they never really disagreed about much of anything and that was fine with him. In fact, he preferred it. Why fight when you could have peace and love instead? He didn't need the dissonance some people seemed to crave, and so he was glad he and his girlfriend didn't lock horns the way John and Paul so regularly did. Why couldn't they just coexist peacefully, he mused as his mind revisited the tumultuous events of the evening. Surely there was nothing to gain from ragging on each other the way they sometimes did? Although, admittedly, it was often John doing the ragging. He'd definitely been the instigator this time 'round.

Richard gulped down a few large swigs of his beer. It could have been such a great night. For the most part, that's exactly what it had been. When he'd walked into the band room, Paul had been there by himself, happiness incarnate as he bashed away on the drum kit. He wasn't half bad at it either, though a brilliant drummer he was not. Obviously, that hadn't been the point. The idea was to have fun, and he succeeded in that. He had, in turn, picked up John's guitar and joined the jam by playing what he knew: A, D, E. He'd never learned any other chords and had no desire to, either. As long as he could recall, Richard had liked drums, and that was enough for him.

If John had been feeling shirty when he walked in on them, he hadn't shown it. Not consciously, anyway, though there were fleeting moments where Richard sensed something was amiss. Since it was always gone before he could home in on it, he'd shrugged it off. He'd been too busy having fun in any case, even if that daft song they'd talked him into singing still sounded a bit queer. Richie supposed nobody was going to pay much attention to it, anyway and if people did, that wasn't going to rob him of the great memories he had rehearsing it. Looking back, it seemed impossible for anything to ruin the evening. That is until Paul came up with that bass idea. Why John reacted to it the way he had, was anyone's guess. But the moment he'd blurted out that cutting remark had changed everything.

"We get it, Paul, yer some sort of musical genius. No need to be such an egomaniac about it!"

It was uncalled for, and he knew John knew it. Personally, Richard had enjoyed seeing and hearing how Paul went about acquainting himself with a new instrument. It was so obvious there were few things the kid enjoyed more. So what if he was already great at singing, playing the guitar, piano, and even drums? Was it his fault he had a gift for learning how to play whatever instrument he touched? John seemed to think so. He didn't appear to appreciate how Paul's face would light up whenever he connected a few more dots. Even when he got it wrong, he seemed to go 'a-ha!' And get it right the next time. He was clearly having fun, and once he managed to get a bit of a groove going, Richard couldn't resist joining in  
with a simple shuffle on the drums.

John could have joined them for a proper twelve-bar Blues, but he decided to do the opposite and ruin their fun. It was petty and mean, it abruptly ended a perfectly good jam, and with it, that night's rehearsal. Quite possibly, it ended their little band. But then with John, it always was in for a penny, in for a pound. Richard could still hear the words echoing through his head as clearly as they had when John first said them. Could still see the pain in Paul's expression and the challenge in John's. The deafening silence that fell after those words only amplified them more. And yet, it had been Paul's response that set off the spiteful rant which paled their previous fights in comparison.

It wasn't so much what he said, but how he said it. Had he simply yelled some abuse, things might not have escalated. Instead, he was honest. He didn't pretend to not care but showed his true feelings. You couldn't do that with John. Not when he was in that kind of mood. Everyone knew that about him, and nearly everyone knew how to handle it. Paul knew better than anyone, and yet he made that colossal mistake. Sure, John had softened up a lot over time and he had become a lot less vicious, especially towards Paul. But clearly, old habits died hard. His response to Paul's initial display of vulnerability had been ruthless.

Ringo had tried to step in. He hated that kind of conflict, but John had been deaf to his pleas. At first, Paul had taken a defensive position but then he'd unleashed a side of him Richard had always suspected to be in there, though he'd never known what it would take to see it come out. Now that he'd witnessed the full force of it, he could only conclude that Paul was even scarier than John. He reminded himself to never get on the man's bad side because he wouldn't want any of that aggression to be aimed at him. The way his rage distorted the otherwise soft features and changed the warm, soothing voice into a booming wall of sound was nothing short of frightening, and yet it didn't seem to have much of an impact on John. Or perhaps he was just too stubborn to admit it.

Either way, even though the whole blowup only lasted a few minutes, it felt like hours and it might have gone on for much longer if Paul hadn't walked out, telling John in no uncertain terms they were through. Well, that shut John up, at least. He obviously hadn't seen that one coming. His behaviour after Paul left was almost enough to make Richard feel sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. He brought it upon himself, after all. He had to learn at some point that his actions had consequences and that simply being John didn't excuse his behaviour and that no amount of tears was going to undo the pain he'd inflicted on others. In the end, Richard had excused himself and gone home. He hadn't been in the mood for anything else anymore, anyway.

He sighed and picked up the beret he'd dropped onto the coffee table. He hadn't noticed it wasn't his until he'd tried to wear it on his way home. There was no doubt about it; it was two sizes too large and it didn't have the tiny, barely noticeable mark on the back, where he'd accidentally scorched it by getting his cigarette too close to the fabric one time. It had to be Paul's since John had stuck his beret underneath his epaulette. The remaining two hats had both been tossed onto the piano and stayed there until the party came crashing down. In his rush to leave, Paul must have taken the wrong one and that meant he'd face a problem in the morning: he'd never be able to wear a beret two sizes too small. Not without getting a massive headache, anyway. And considering the night's events, the poor sod probably already had one of those.

-*-

Paul

"Will you just talk to me, Paul?"

Pretending to be deaf, Paul buried his hands deeper into his pockets and stubbornly kept walking. If it wasn't bad enough John had managed to ruin an otherwise perfectly pleasant day, he just had to come and find him after he walked out on him and their relationship. Why couldn't the man just leave well enough alone for once? Paul kept his eyes firmly on the ground in front of him as he went, refusing to look at John, whose hurried footsteps were rapidly closing in.

"Macca, come on..."

"What, so you can tell me again how much of an arrogant bastard I am? How full I am of myself, how I'm never happy unless I can outshine someone or any of that other crap? No thank you, John, I'll pass." Cursing himself for even opening his mouth, he picked up the pace, hoping against his better judgement to be left in peace.

"I didn't mean that, alright?" John was right behind him now. Paul could hear him panting slightly.

"Could've fooled me," he grumbled, lengthening his strides even more although he was already going just about as fast as he could. Not fast enough, apparently, because he could see John's shape appearing in his periphery. You'd think having longer legs would be an advantage, he thought. Apparently not a big enough one to put some distance between himself and John fucking Lennon.

"What do you want, Macca? An apology? I'm sorry, right? I don't know why I said those things."

"Sure you do: because that's how you feel about me." He took a sharp turn, which led him in the wrong direction. Frankly, Paul couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't really know where he was supposed to go, anyway. All he wanted was to shake John off and be alone for a while, to lick his wounds and find some degree of composure. Sadly, the attempt failed, and he was still being stalked. "Bugger off, Lennon."

"But I don't, see? You know me, I always say shit I don't mean." John overtook him now and positioned himself in front of Paul. With his path now quite effectively blocked, he had little choice but to stop, though he had half a mind to knock John's teeth out. Perhaps he already would have, if something in the git's expression hadn't stopped him. Still seething, Paul stood still long enough for John to catch his breath. He swallowed hard, but that somewhat pleading expression remained. "You shouldn't take it to heart, babe. It's only me."

Paul had looked away the moment John had started to speak again, mostly to determine the easiest way to escape, but part of him was simultaneously gauging the sincerity of those words. John sounded earnest enough, looked it too, but what good did it do? Even if he was sorry, how long would it be before he did the same thing all over again? "That won't cut it anymore, John. I'm through."

"I don't want us to break up, Paul."

"Tough. I'm not having it anymore. I never wanted any of this to begin with," he shouted, unable to stop all of his pent-up insecurities to come rushing out so fast it made him feel sick. "I was normal before I met you, John. You made me this way. I didn't ask for it. Any of it. You made me into a fucking pervert but it ends now. I'm done."

"Bollocks. Nobody made you this way, McCartney. You can blame me for being an arse, right, but I didn't make you queer. It doesn't work that way." John moved in closer, making it physically impossible for Paul to get away. "I like you, Macca. No, fuck that. I love you. And I know you feel the same about me. You can't act as if that isn't true. I don't want it to end this way. We've already come so far."

"Should've thought of that sooner, shouldn't you? I'm sick of being your punching bag whenever you feel like it," Paul spat, half surprised to see John taking a step back. "If you want to criticise me for things I've actually done wrong, go ahead. But this childish jealousy at me being better than you at some, isn't on. I'm not having it anymore, John. Just leave me alone." Seeing his way out, he brusquely pushed past John and made a quick right turn at the corner, followed by a left one which led him into a badly illuminated ginnel between the laundry room and the hospital wing. It was the shortest route back to the dormitory, as far as he knew.

"Please don't walk away." Bloody hell, Lennon could be so persistent when he wanted to be. Even now, he refused to back down, continued to call after him in that pleading tone. It was tempting to listen, to give in. But not this time, not today. "Paul!"

Paul could distinguish a frustrated noise somewhere near where he'd left John, followed by the sound of a familiar gait, running to catch up. Instead of trying to walk beside him, John roughly grabbed Paul's arm and pushed him against the wall. Standing almost chest to chest with his hands firmly planted against the wall, John had Paul quite thoroughly trapped. There was no way he'd manage to escape now, so he stayed there, avoiding John's stare, trying hard to ignore the heat that radiated from the body that was now so close he could feel the breath brushing his face. "Now will you listen to me?"

"Let me go or I'll thump you."

"Not until you give me a chance to explain," John stated, sounding remarkably close to the verge of crying. Paul could tell by the way he moved his head that John was trying to catch his gaze. If anything would be able to crumble his resolve it would be seeing tears in John's eyes, so he fixed his stare on the buttons of John's coat.

"Explain what, John? I think I already got the message."

"I don't think you have."

Paul knew John was going to kiss him, even before he touched his face and pressed their lips together. He'd heard it in his voice. It had that specific pitch, lower and without the nasal tone that otherwise gave it its sharp edge. It nearly always sounded like that when they were intimate. He had jokingly dubbed it John's bedroom voice when things were good between them. What he didn't expect, was for the kiss to be so tender. It was like an apology without words, a declaration of...something, whatever it was. Need? Respect? Love? Whatever it was, it felt good. Still, one kiss, however good, didn't change what happened. John's words had wounded him too deeply to just forgive and forget. With an effort, Paul turned his head away.

"Don't."

"Give us another chance, Macca," John muttered softly. "I'll change, I promise."

"As if," he harrumphed. How many times had he heard that already anyway?

"I will, you know. If you want me to, I will."

"I don't." The words were out before he knew it.

"Don't what?"

"Don't want you to change," Paul sighed. "I want you to leave me alone."

John shook his head. "I can't do that. I like you too much, Paul. And you like me."

"I don't." Again, he found his lips locked with John's, and again it had not been his idea. This time, though, it was different. Forceful, as if John was trying to prove a point. Unfortunately, he was doing a very good job of it. Paul was fuming, hurt, disappointed, scared, and hopelessly unable to resist the feelings or desire that kiss stirred up. With the biggest of efforts, he pulled back, only to find himself lost in those almond eyes which looked right through him. "Alright, I do."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Paul knew he was crazy to give in so easily. He shouldn't give John another chance to break his heart, and yet his hand flew up to land on the back of John's head, where he tightly locked his fingers in the auburn curls he fancied so much, pulling quite a bit harder than necessary. If the muffled cry of pain was any indication, he probably managed to relieve John of some of his hair. Perhaps he was kissing back a bit too aggressively as well since he was quite sure he tasted blood. Still, in Paul's mind, any pain he inflicted was more than deserved. Also, the strange combination of anger and passion was a massive turn on. Given the sounds John was making, he didn't mind a bit of pain. Knowing him, he probably liked it enough to start a row again just so they could make up like that. He'd have to cross that bridge when they got there because clearly, they'd just made up.

-*-

Ringo

It took John and Paul absurdly long to notice him. If the comment Neil had made about suspecting they were hiding something from him hadn't been enough to raise Richard's hackles, finding them so engrossed in each other they were blind and deaf to their surroundings certainly was enough to cause serious worry. He had got close enough to be able to reach out and pull his hat out of Paul's pocket when they finally broke apart and looked at him like deer caught in headlights. It took another few seconds for the lads regain enough of their wits to let go of each other.

This, he pondered, was not good. They were far too careless. If they didn't see or hear him, then they wouldn't have noticed anyone else, either. It wasn't as if he had moved in with any kind of stealth, and he may have been small, but not short enough for people to overlook him completely. What's more, they hadn't even been difficult to find. The ginnel was quite dark, but they'd still been easy enough to see from a distance. Not just seen, either. He'd largely managed to locate them through the noises they made which frankly had made him wonder for a moment if Paul had perhaps beaten John to a pulp. The last time he heard the lad grunt like that was when he had that sprained wrist and attempted to lift something heavy with it.

He didn't know what he would have preferred to witness, but he definitely could have done without the sight and sound of the rather temperamental snogging session. Still, it could have been worse. In fact, he'd seen them do worse, and he was still trying to scrub the image from his retinas. But just because it could've been worse, didn't make this okay. If he hadn't come to look for them, they would have been in massive trouble. Someone would be patrolling the grounds very soon, and that someone would've easily spotted them, too. "Lads," he sighed in exasperation, "this has to stop."

John found his voice first. Well, voice... It was more of a croak, but at least he managed to speak, whereas Paul was too busy looking like a kid caught with his hands in the biscuit tin. "Stop? We've only just got back together. You want us to break up again?"

"No, of course not." Anything but that, he thought. He couldn't think of anyone who'd want those two to continue fighting like they had in the past. They were far too good at that, and it had too much of a negative effect on the people around them. Seeing them on the verge of humping each other wasn't the best thing in the world, either. But at least they were pleasant company when they were happy. So no, he did not want them to break up. But... "This risk-taking has gone too far. You're not even trying to hide it now... Anyone could've seen you, and you'd never have noticed."

"You're right," Paul muttered with an impish grin. "We have to be more careful. It's just that we kind of got caught up in it, you know."

"You don't say, Paul. I would never have guessed. Bloody hell, that looked more painful than having the stuffing kicked out of you."

"Erm..."

John the wordsmith lost for words. That had to be a first. It almost made Richie laugh, but then he noticed something. "John, your lip is bleeding."

"I know," he deadpanned, jerking his head at Paul. "He bit me."

"You had it coming." The comeback was instant, and altogether not helping.

Richard raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Lads, I don't want to know. I just want my beret and be on my way."

"Your what?"

"Beret, Paul. You know, the thing you got sticking out yer pocket? Usually worn on the head when yer not busy pulling each other's hair out? You've got mine."

Paul looked down at his coat and pulled the slightly crushed headwear out of his pocket. "This is yours? Sorry."

"Just give it back so I can go home and put the kettle on," Richard pleaded, grateful to finally get the contested item back. He smoothed it out a bit, concluded it wasn't any worse for wear, and put it on to avoid losing it again. When he looked up again, he found that Paul was looking at him with his hand half outstretched, as if he was waiting for something. "Oh, right. I left yours on your bed."

"Cheers, Richie."

"Yeah, well." He buried his hands in his pockets again. They'd got quite cold in the few seconds they were exposed to the wind. "Wrap it up. If anyone catches you outside after lights out, there will be hell to pay."

"Is it that late already?" Paul looked at his watch, then promptly grabbed John's forearm and glanced at his timepiece as well. It was a bit of an odd thing to do. John seemed to think so, too.

"You just looked at yours."

"Which stopped working after that little swim, remember?"

Richard didn't have a clue what he was on about, and he suspected he didn't want to know, either. The fact that John knew was enough. Knowing them, it probably wasn't anything anyone would approve of, anyway.

"Oh, right. Forgot. Why are you still wearing it, then?"

"Out of habit," Paul shrugged. He looked rather confused by the sight of John's wristwatch. "Yours says it's a quarter to three."

"Forgot to wind it up, didn't I? Rich, how much time have we got left?"

With a long-suffering sigh, he checked. Unlike them, he knew how to take care of his possessions, and his watch was always telling him the correct time. "You've got... Eight minutes."

"Crap. We better go then. We haven't even showered yet."

"We could still do that, you know," John instantly rebuffed, making his eyebrows bounce too suggestively to mean anything but stuff Ringo wanted no part of. The silly giggle from Paul, however, indicated that he didn't mind the innuendo.

He shook his head. What was it with those two, anyway? Did they enjoy making people feel uncomfortable? Was that why they could kiss and make up right after declaring World War Three? There had to be something to make it worthwhile, but he didn't want his mind to ponder what that might be. Some things, Richie reckoned, were better left unsaid.

"I don't want to know. I really, really don't want to know," he grumbled. "I'm going to go home, have a cuppa, or a stiff drink, and forget everything I just saw and heard. You two are unbelievable."

John cackled gleefully. "Blame Paul. He's the randy one."

"I don't want to know." Determined not to hear another word, Richard turned and began to walk off. He was nearly out of the ginnel when it occurred to him he was going the wrong way, so he reluctantly turned around and walked in the opposite direction, still grumbling under his breath. "I don't... Just... Seven minutes. Go to bed. See you at the next rehearsal."

"G'night, Richie," John called after him. "Try not to think about us when you rub one out, right? Or do, if it gets yer rocks off."

"Fuck you, John."

"I'll reserve that privilege for Paul if you don't mind."

He turned to face them and yelled, hoping they'd get the message, "I don't want to know!"


End file.
